


Secret Garden

by ChampagneSly



Series: Blue Tulip Verse [3]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Ensemble Cast, M/M, Pornstars, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-08
Updated: 2012-02-08
Packaged: 2017-10-30 19:49:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 58,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/335431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChampagneSly/pseuds/ChampagneSly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The history of the Blue Tulip and the games that two people play, no matter how high the stakes. </p><p>Featuring much of the cast--and the recruiting of Germany, Denmark, America, and Norway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "Germany"

“Feliciano, my Italian delight, would you have a few minutes to chat with your darling Big Brother Francis?” Francis inquired with dripping sweetness, waiting for Feliciano to meander towards him like the dizzy little butterfly he was and dutifully come to rest in the flower of Francis’ palm.  
  
“I always have time for Big Brother!” Feliciano cooed happily, wandering away from chattering with Feliks into Francis’ office, very much the lamb unaware of being led to sacrifice. But if all went according to Francis’ plan, (and life almost always bent to Francis’ will), Feliciano would not complain about taking one for the team this time.  
  
Francis smiled at him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders as he had done since they were both enrolled at university some years ago, the kind upperclassman helping the lazily trusting freshman navigate waters that Francis personally expended effort to keep murky. He’d known Feliciano almost as long as Antonio and had found him as endearingly exploitable as the Spaniard, though he’d never quite been able to shake Feliciano of his clinging naivety. Antonio was too complacent to want more than to shuffle contentedly through life.  
  
Feliciano didn’t ever seem to know any better, no matter how fervently his brother had tried to make it otherwise. He was blissfully willing to be led by the nose as long as he was well kept, occasionally pampered, and generally indulged in being his sweetly appealing self.  
  
Jos had almost as little use for Feliciano as he did for Antonio, an opinion which he had made abundantly and coldly clear the morning after Francis had announced that he would no longer be making movies and that it was time to launch a new pantheon of porn gods. Francis had only smiled and patted Jos’ cheek, knowing the condescension would make his eyes snap so prettily, informing him that he wouldn’t expect a number cruncher to see the secret value in someone so seemingly vapid as dear Feliciano.  
  
And when he promised that they would drink together on the day that Feliciano proved his true worth, Jos only looked at him, gaze for once more considering than calculating, and told Francis he would hold him to such a risky bet.  
  
Today, Francis had finally decided it was time to take that bet and make good on his promise to the only person who dared to challenge his talents. It was finally time to put that idiot charm and total lack of self-reliance that so defined Feliciano to good use in pursuit of a much rarer and more elusive catch.  
  
Once they were both comfortably ensconced on Francis’ obscenely luxurious couch,  _(he’d had a devil of a time explaining that expense to Jos, who refused to accept that Francis needed such a thing to maintain the illusion that his office was a place to vent frustrations and divulge all secrets into Big Brother Francis’ sympathetic ear)_ , he set his plan in motion, playing idly with Feliciano’s fingers.  
  
“You’ve been working so hard, Feliciano! I can hardly begin to thank you!”  
  
Feliciano smiled vacantly, “Oh, no, its been lots of fun! Much different without Lovino yelling at me everyday!”  
  
“Ah, yes,” Francis thought dryly, remembering Feliciano’s charming elder brother and his dulcet screeching tones with no fondness. For some reason, Lovino never had seemed to forgive him for seducing his brother into the not-so-family business.  
  
“But I do miss him,” Feliciano sighed wistfully, “Even though he called me names, and frowned so much I worried his lips had gotten stuck, he still sometimes cooked for me and he was always there when I got home.”  
  
Francis frowned in sympathy, “Are you lonely here, my dearest?”  
  
As expected, Feliciano’s eyes watered, which while ridiculous also made them even more lovely, something Francis would have to remember in a few days time.  
  
“Ah, don’t cry!” Francis said as he fussed over Feliciano, caressing him with attention, “Since you’re lonely and you’ve been working so hard, I wonder if you might want to get away? Spend some quality time on the road with your loving Big Brother?”  
  
Feliciano sniffled loudly, tears drying in record time, voice hiccuping on that adorable little tic of his, “Ve! Really? You don’t mind me tagging along? Lovino always says I am annoying when we go anywhere together because I can’t carry my own bags for very long and I take too much time to look at all the signs and the pretty things in the windows and...”  
  
Francis laughed, cutting off Feliciano’s unneeded rambling, “Of course! You would be doing me such a favor! In fact, I have something that I need your help with desperately. Something only you can do for me!”  
  
He watched the slow spread of surprise and pleasure across Feliciano’s face, amused by the sudden eager flush, gratified to know it took such simple bait as being thought capable enough to help to capture Feliciano.  
He thought that Jos would mock him for being so incredibly indulgent as to waste his wiles on such a soft and pliable mind as Feliciano’s, but there was something comforting and sweet about being trusted so easily, having his words taken at face value instead of parsed in some hidden corner of a marvelously twisted Dutch heart.  
  
“What do you need me to do?” Feliciano asked happily, offering himself up so freely to Francis’ guiding hand.  
  
“Oh, I was hoping you might join me my trip to Germany next week. Gilbert’s asked me to come visit and it would be awfully boring to go alone...”  
  
He paused deliberately, waiting out the slow turn of the wheel of memory, blinking innocently when Feliciano grabbed his hands excitedly, “Gilbert like Ludwig’s brother Gilbert?”  
  
Francis pretended to consider this for a moment as though he truly had forgotten Gilbert’s tightly wound and deliciously repressed younger brother and Feliciano’s boundless, endless affection for the uptight German, exclaiming, “Ah, I think you’re right! I completely forgot that Gilbert had a brother! And that you are friends with him! How nice!”  
  
Francis felt a twinge of guilt at the yearning in Feliciano’s voice, “Mmhmm, we were almost friends in university. He thought I was annoying and silly but because he is so kind and good when he’s not trying to be scary he let me spend time with him. It was lots of fun! I thought maybe, for a little while, he might have wanted...But then he had to go back to Germany to help Gilbert and I followed you to Paris.”  
  
Francis wanted to bottle the way Feliciano looked at this moment, dreamy and wanting with his warm eyes hooded and his lips parted as though he could summon the kiss he had never gotten from the air if he just stared long enough.  
  
He wanted this look in every bedroom in Amsterdam. It would go so well with his vision of reluctantly affectionate blue eyes and a stern grimace, wrapped in leather and domination. If he could pull this play off, he would have all this and more.  
  
It might even make Feliciano happy.  
  
“Oh, that’s so sad, my pet! But here I am with this wonderful and unexpected opportunity to reunite you with your long lost beloved friend! I think fate must be smiling on us!”  
  
Feliciano grinned at him with such guileless gratitude it was almost too much to take, “Thank you so much! I’m so excited and nervous and oh, I wonder if he’ll even remember me, but I hope he does, and if there’s anything I can do, anything at all to help you, Francis, just say it and I’ll do it as long as its not too hard.”  
  
Francis laughed with sincere amusement and pulled Feliciano to rest against his side, the romantic in him whispering that perhaps this once something that was going to be so good for business might also be good for someone else.  
  
He wondered what Jos would think if he knew that his coy and conniving partner still felt the occasional tug on his heartstrings.  
  
He winked at Feliciano, “Always so sweet and helpful! If I think of anything, I’ll let you know!”  
  
And while Feliciano babbled and chattered at him, Francis turned his thoughts towards the prize that awaited them both just across the border.  
  
~~~~~~  
“What the fuck are you doing here!?” Gilbert shouted with raucous uncouth delight, tossing the bar rag at his gorgeously buttoned down brother to launch himself with his fists flying at Francis’ innocently smiling face.  
  
The punches missed by miles, Francis gamely playing along as he dodged and darted around the room, feeling as though he had lost seven years from his unspeakable age, laughing when Gilbert finally caught him around the waist and hugged him tightly.  
  
“Oh, I thought I would take you up on that offer to drop by any time,” Francis wheezed, trying to extricate himself from Gilbert’s overly enthusiastic greeting, “And I’ve brought a friend!”  
  
Francis didn’t even have a chance to introduce Feliciano, as he was already leaning across the bar, holding Ludwig’s stiff hands between his own, mooning up at him as he gushed forth all his happiness and excitement at being reunited, “with the sweetest, strongest man he’d ever known and did Ludwig still remember that time he had tied his shoes because his arms were so full of books and a bag of tasty pastries.”  
  
Gilbert eyed him dubiously, muttering under his breath while Francis beamed his encouragement at Feliciano, “Loser, I made that awesome offer like six years ago and when you do show up, you bring some total psycho to climb all over West.”  
  
Francis pulled Gilbert away, amused to note that though Ludwig had already started blushing and stammering his denials, his hand had softened enough to curl loosely around Feliciano’s palm.  
  
“You’ve always been so charmingly unobservant! That, Gilbert, is Feliciano.”  
  
“No shit! You brought Ludwig’s lame ass college crush with you? Fuck, he’s probably shitting himself right now!” Gilbert hissed, eyes glinting maliciously as they watched Feliciano press hello kisses to Ludwig’s flaming cheeks.  
  
“Goddamn, I thought I raised him to be less of a pussy,” Gilbert muttered fondly, shaking his head for a moment before turned to Francis with a knowing look, “So, what the fuck are you up to, Francis?”  
  
Francis laughed lowly, “Moi? Nothing at all. I just came to see a dear old friend, drink some fine German beer, and take a well deserved rest from keeping my slave driving Dutch master satisfied.”  
  
“Right,” Gilbert said doubtfully, “And I’m a peace loving hippie.”  
  
Francis smirked at him, “I’ve always suspected as much. That whole violence and mayhem thing was just an ill-advised phase. That you’ve always longed to be more neutral like Vash.”  
  
Gilbert snarled at him playfully, “I oughta fucking kick you out of my bar! If I weren’t so awesomely magnanimous and really fucking curious as to what your pansy ass was up to these days, I'd fight you for saying something like that. What the fuck is this about a Dutch master? Are you suddenly into the same shit in Ludwig’s super secret porn stash?”  
  
For a hot moment, Francis envisioned himself collared and naked on his knees in front of Jos, waiting to receive his next command, hoping and wishing it was an order to kiss every inch of his far too long legs.  
  
He wondered if Jos would ever let him close enough for such dangerous games of control, wondered how intricate of a net he would have to weave to ensnare such a surrender.  
  
Shaking off the fantasy, Francis chuckled, keeping one eye on Feliciano’s progress, “Alas, no. I’ve left La Moulin, Gil. I’ve got a studio all of my own to direct now. The Blue Tulip.”  
  
Gilbert patted him heartily on the back in congratulations before suddenly gripping roughly by the neck, murmuring nastily, “Heh, I see how it is. You’re here for Ludwig. You’ve been panting after him for years.”  
  
“You know me too well,” Francis answered lowly, craning his head to meet Gilbert’s threatening gaze, “But I don’t want him for me. I want him to come work for me.”  
  
“And why the fuck should he do that?” Gilbert snarled and Francis was becoming increasingly certain that he could go the rest of his life without enduring any more overprotective siblings.  
  
“Oh please, Gilbert, don’t you think its time you stopped relying on him to clean up your messes and let him make his own choices?” Francis answered with vicious enjoyment,knowing that the soft touch was lost on a man like this, stripping the velvet away from his iron fist, “The Blue Tulip could offer him money and the freedom to act out all those filthy fantasies that he seems to carry as a burden instead of a blessing. He could be free of this life you know he hates. He could even have love, if he wanted it.”  
  
Francis twisted his head, skin burning from the pull of Gilbert’s fingers, nodding at Ludwig sitting stone still with Feliciano touching his face and whispering in his ear.  
  
Abruptly, he was free once more as Gilbert’s hand fell away with a hushed, “Fuck.”  
  
Rubbing his neck, Francis turned to his old friend, giving him the gift a rare true smile, “Besides, you ugly bastard, you don’t need Ludwig any more. You’ve been standing on your own two feet for years. I mean just look at this place! Its only half as disgusting as the last time I graced it with my presence!”  
  
Gilbert barked with that harsh laughter that had always sounded a little maniacal, baring his teeth at Francis as he grinned, “You’re damned right! I’m fucking awesome with or without my pathetic brother and his constant fucking bitching about personal responsibility and doing stupid shit like properly applying for a liquor license. I fucking want him to run off and join your idiot porn circus.”  
  
“Too right, my darling, too right!”  
  
Gilbert scoffed and turned away in from the growing intimacy over at the bar.  
  
 _(Oh, Francis was so proud! Little Feliciano was performing so magnificently and he didn’t have to do anything other than be himself! Wonderful, wonderful!)._  
  
“So, I’m betting you brought dumbshit Toni along to be your clapping seal,” Gilbert asked, distracting Francis from his gleeful observation of what he was sure was going to be the next big thing for the Blue Tulip.  
  
“Mmm, yes, dear Antonio was kind enough to follow me to Amsterdam,” Francis answered absently, thinking of what wine he wanted to go with the crow Jos would be eating when he returned triumphant.  
  
“Lazy bastard always was too busy smiling and nodding to think for himself,” Gilbert mocked affectionately, reminding Francis of the curve of those lips he had known for so long and for so well.  
  
And so recently.  
  
“How is that total loser?” Gilbert asked, nudging Francis with his shoulder.  
  
Francis closed his eyes and recalled the taste of Antonio’s skin under his tongue as he’d traced a familiar path up his chest only a night ago, murmuring “Like dipping into wonderful warm bath water after hours of standing in the freezing rain.”  
  
“What the fuck? Are you fucking high?” Gilbert groused, clearly confused.  
  
Francis shook his head, smiling lightly into Gilbert’s adorable consternation, “Sorry, sorry! I’m clearly dehydrated and speaking nonsense. Be my knight in shining armor and bring me a drink, would you?”  
  
Gilbert leaned forward, peering at him skeptically with those startling red eyes, before huffing and marching resolutely towards the bar, very obviously trying not to notice that Feliciano was now almost in Ludwig’s lap.  
  
Francis sighed prettily and wondered what on earth had made him say such a thing to Gilbert, wondering if perhaps the events of the night before had rattled him more than they ought to have done.  
  
It hadn’t been intentional or planned, taking Antonio to bed, but Antonio was so welcoming and familiar, like a taste of everything from before he’d made himself a willing captive of a cold and distant man. Oh, Jos was such a wonderful puzzle, such a hard study, but Francis had thought he could hardly be faulted for wanting the ease of touching his frostbitten fingers to the hot beauty of Antonio’s ready body. It was rejuvenating to revel in Antonio’s easy, undemanding friendship and lazy sensuality, like kissing the honey of the Mediterranean after willing wading into the North Sea.  
  
He’d laughed into the salty plane of Antonio’s chest when he’d nervously asked if Jos would mind them sleeping together, surprising Francis with a rare burst of awareness when he correctly assumed that Jos loathed him.  
  
Francis had only dragged his tongue up Antonio’s neck and given the same promise he’d not so long ago made to Jos, “Don’t worry, I’ll handle him.”  
  
Antonio had fallen silent but for moans and gasps, as known to Francis as the sound of La Marseillaise, though less rousing than the quiet way Jos cursed when Francis had curled his toes and arched his back in the expanse of his bed.  
  
He had been so engrossed in relearning the curve of Antonio’s wonderful jaw that he almost missed Antonio’s groaned, “Its not me I’m worried about.”  
  
And later, when he had spilled pushed Antonio out of his office, rumpled and well fucked and as damningly gorgeous as ever, Francis had though Antonio wonderfully kind to spare worry for a man who disliked him so thoroughly when he noticed the still open door down the hall, seeing Jos framed in the door, bathed in the blue light of his computer.  
  
It occurred to him as he watched Antonio stagger anxiously down the hall, cowering under the weight of Jos’ gaze, that Jos was likely a very solitary man. In all the months they had been working side by side, Francis had never known Jos to keep any other company than his sister and him.  
  
He felt momentarily regretful of Antonio’s skulking departure and his own disheveled state, feeling the sharpness of Jos’ stare, wondering if perhaps it had been a misstep in their dance that he adored so dearly to show that he was vain enough to occasionally want something easy and available. To want something other than machinations and manipulations.  
  
But Jos had said nothing, done nothing more than look at him for a long, quiet moment, before calmly and coolly bidding him a “productive trip.”  
  
 _Could any other response have been so perfecty beguiling?_  
  
And just like that he had been immersed once again, falling beneath the chill waves of Jos’ sea of mystery, forgetting the allure of the Mediterranean, flirting and cajoling as he reminded Jos that he would be returning only when he could prove Jos’ doubt so wonderfully wrong.  
  
Arms wrapping too tightly around his shoulders and the sensation of warm, excited, breath spilling over his cheek startled Francis out of his daydreams, giving him just enough awareness to tune into the lovely message a joyous Feliciano was delivering.  
  
“He remembers me! Ludwig remembers me and even though he said he didn’t remember doing anything as silly as ever tying my shoes for me, he just did it again because I had a glass of beer in one hand and wurst in the other and he was worried I was going to trip over my feet. He blushed a lot when I told him all about my job and I used lots of detail just like you told me until he got so red I thought he might faint! But then he said he was happy that I found something to do that made me so happy and wished he had the same! He’s so adorable that I want to make him a hundred bowls of pasta!”  
  
Francis smiled slyly, already tasting the wine he was going to charge to the company account, “That’s wonderful, my darling! If only he lived in Amsterdam you could do that for him everyday!”  
  
He felt the sudden quivering of Feliciano’s bottom lip against his ear, biting back his amusement as he comforted his despondent friend, “Oh, don’t be sad, little Italy! I’ve just had the most absurd idea...what if you were to ask Ludwig if he’d like to come work with us at the Tulip? Would you like that?”  
  
Feliciano’s only response for several seconds was effusing hugging and a stream of unintelligible Italian. At last he draped himself over Francis’s shoulders, staring longingly at Ludwig, who by Francis’ estimation seemed to be trying his hardest not to look in their direction, and sighed, “I don’t know if he’ll say yes. Why would he want to ally himself with me?”  
  
Francis patted his arm soothingly, “How about Big Brother having a little chat with him first and then you can spend the rest of the week here convincing him of all the many reasons he should follow you back to Amsterdam?”  
  
“Really? Big Brother is so wonderful to do that for me!” Feliciano answered with such unassuming delight that Francis would have considered being ashamed were he not about to ensure Feliciano’s furture fiscal and sexual  bliss.  
  
Once he managed to disentangle himself from the Italian’s clinging grasp, Francis moved towards the storm cloud of Teutonic fretting brewing in the corner of the bar, stopping only to whisper to a still suspicious Gilbert that he would make up for the impending brother theft with an all expenses paid and entirely debauched trip to Stockholm later that month.  
  
He breezed through the obvious dislike in Ludwig’s glare, unsurprised that he had yet to forgive Francis for some entirely innocent propositions he’d made to let Ludwig live out all his loveliest BDSM dreams in Francis’ bedroom.  
  
He curved around Ludwig’s rigid back, curling one manicured hand over his shoulder and turning him to face the sight of Feliciano swinging his feet happily off a bar stool, smiling like the cheery and loving idiot he was at Gilbert’s charming antics.  
  
“Before you throw me bodily from the room, I want you to promise you’ll consider what Feliciano has to offer you, my poor, put-upon Ludwig. You’ll feel as though you should say no, that you must say no, but I assure it is right and good to say yes. To want to be out from under Gilbert’s thumb and master of your own domain, to want to say yes to those lovely eyes looking at you, so warm and trusting as you bind him to the bed, what could be more natural? How could you not want to take such a man for yourself, to make sure that someone so trusting and naive would have a strong protector by his side?”  
  
Francis paused for effect, treasuring Ludwig’s stillness betrayed only by the rushing of his breath as he fell under Francis’ siren song, “Just promise me you’ll listen. Would Feliciano lead you wrong?”  
  
And when at length, Ludwig grunted something that sounded suspiciously like his word that he would listen, Francis knew that he had done all the could, that he had put all the pieces in motion and that he had to trust in Feliciano’s endearing foolishness to seal his deal and bring home the bounty he had promised Jos.  
  
He took the drink that Gilbert shoved into his hand, daydreaming already of home, knowing that victory was going to taste so sweet.  
  
~~~~~  
  
It had been a long and challenging day trying to keep Ludwig from bolting every time they turned a corner or entered another room at the Studios, as if he expected each nook and cranny to be hiding some den of iniquity that justified his screaming instinct to flee back to Germany and sanity. Francis had practically had to keep Feliciano glued to the man’s side gazing adoringly at Ludwig with his best moon calf eyes until they finally reached the small dungeon that Francis had so been longing to put to good use on camera.  
  
As soon as he saw the widening of Ludwig’s eyes and the twitch of his hand towards Feliciano’s upturned and waiting palm, coupled with that little hitch in his breath that gave him away so entirely, Francis hurried him down the hall and plunked him in front of Jos and his iron clad contracts. As insurance, he had quietly ordered Feliciano to linger just outside the office door, instructing him to hum sweetly so that Ludwig was always subconsciously aware of his presence; effectively signing his name and thinking, even if he didn’t quite know it, of the prize that Francis had promised him would be his only nights ago in the darkness of a Berlin bar.  
  
And now that the deed was done and Ludwig had thrown himself into the lion’s den for a chance to play gladiator for his pretty Italian prince, Francis wanted nothing more than to celebrate his victory, to toast his successful conquest with wine and gloat in the company of the one man who seemed to enjoy his machinations even more than he did.  
  
He hoped that Jos would not deny him another turn about the dance floor for having dallied so obviously with the help, wearied by the thought of having to re-engineer his campaign to tunnel under the walls of Jos’ fortress for a peek a the keep.  
  
When the last of the studio lights had dimmed, already half way through the bottle he carried under his arm, two glasses dangling from his fingers, Francis stood in the shadow of Jos’ doorway, unsurprised to find the man still sitting at his desk, illuminated by the glow of the monitor. He looked up at the sound of the bottle tap-tap-tapping on the door and Francis smiled gently at the familiar arch of the eyebrow that always seemed to say, “Stop wasting my time and come in like we both know you’re going to regardless of whether or not I invite you in.”  
  
Francis wondered when Jos was going to stop pretending that he didn’t like it when Francis ran roughshod over his orderly little day, when he would finally admit that he that he, too, found this to be such delicious fun.  
  
He set the wine glasses on the desk, pouring them each a healthy dose before settling in the chair and raising a toast, “To the addition of another tulip to our ever growing and ever profitable garden.”  
  
Jos smirked at him and reached across with his long arms to touch his glass to Francis’, muttering, “I thought the German was going to throw up on my desk.”  
  
Francis laughed gleefully, giddy with the feeling of a job well done, “Oh, I count myself very lucky that he did not! I have never had to literally risk my own neck to wrangle someone before! Such effort, but he will be magnificent once I’ve managed to varnish away all that stiff exterior.”  
  
Jos’ eyes gleamed with interest and Francis wanted to fall into their sea of mocking curiosity.  
  
“How did you manage to convince such a man?” Jos asked, lighting a cigarette as if nothing went better with a glass of fine Bordeaux than hearing tales of Francis’ exploits.  
  
Francis could not help but agree with the delicacy of Jos’ taste, preening a little as he began to spin his yarn, “Mmm, I’ve wanted Ludwig for a very long time.”  
  
“Oh?” Jos asked blandly, making Francis assume he was going to have to work for his cold and measured praise as the man took a long drag and exhaled across the desk.  
  
Francis let his fingers move through the smoke, leaning forward, “I’ve had the fortune and misfortune of being friends with his elder brother for many years. Gilbert would seem the more natural fit for such exhibitionism, all temper and arrogance, but I knew the moment I met Ludwig that under that repression and that need for order was a star waiting to be born, someone who with the right inducement might let go enough to give free reign to all those impulses and desires he’d told himself for so long were wrong.”  
  
Jos turned his eyes back to the monitor, “And you were that inducement?”  
  
Francis felt irritated to be ignored in the midst of his great retelling of the fall of Berlin wall. His impending pout was only averted by the ludicrousness of such a question. Francis laughed and wondered if Jos would ever become more adept at such useless things as understanding that there were far greater inducements in this world than even the most expertly offered tumble in the sheets.  
  
“No, not in the least. I took my inducement with me,” Francis purred, dangling the bait in front of Jos, determined to wait for the return of his attention before revealing the brilliance of his triumph and Jos’ spectacular miscalculation of Feliciano’s worth.  
  
“I hope you didn’t offer him any sort of signing bonus without my prior approval,” Jos said, glaring at Francis once again, the thought of money being lost enough to tear him away from his computer.  
  
Francis sighed and shook his head, waggling his finger at Jos as though he were a naughty school boy, “Still so prosaic! Sex or money! As if those are the only weapons in my arsenal! Whatever will I do with you?”  
  
“Do tell me when you actually do something that involves neither sex or money as a motivating factor,” Jos answered flatly, though there such was a curious tension in his hands that Francis actually considered being offended, pouting prettily as he said:  
  
“So cruel! So ungrateful to your poor, misunderstood Francis after he put all his skills to the test to bring you the most challenging of Teutonic men! All of it is for you! And what do I get? Such horrible accusations!”  
  
He finished with a great flourish, enjoying every ridiculous word that passed through his lips that made Jos’ nose twitch with annoyance. Already forgetting his momentary bad temper, he slung one arm over his forehead and winked at Jos.  
  
Jos stared stonily at him, though the wine made Francis fancy that he saw those tiny creases of amusement at the corners of his eyes as they walked their way through the familiar steps of their two-step.  
  
He polished off the remainder of his wine and almost crawled across the desk to whisper faux conspiratorially, “No, no, your first guess was closer! Only I wasn’t the one doing the tempting! All credit for such things must go to dear Feliciano!”  
  
“The Italian idiot? Really? What did he do, get the German to tie his shoes?” Jos asked dryly, resting his head on the back of his chair and blowing smoke towards the ceiling.  
  
Francis chuckled, pouring more wine, “That Italian idiot has an appeal all of his own. No need to denigrate him because you don’t appreciate the intricacies of the heart.”  
  
“Don’t I?” Jos snorted, the room falling quiet for a moment before he continued, “Well, then, perhaps you had best explain how Feliciano, our resident witless wonder, managed such a coup?”  
  
Smirking hotly at Jos’ sarcasm, Francis hummed and drank his wine, savoring the taste of oak and warm French earth, loose and comfortable in the hushed dim light, letting a wonderfully terrible idea swim to the surface of his lazy intoxication and earned self-satisfaction.  
  
After all, it had been too long since he had run his fingers over Jos’ buttons, pushing at random until the doors opened and showed him some wonderful secret.  
  
“Better,” Francis declared as he drained another glass and stood up from his chair, “I will show you”  
  
Without giving Jos a chance to avoid his intentions Francis skirted around the desk and slid into Jos’ lap, arms wrapped playfully around his neck while he swung his legs under the chair and gazed up into Jos’ stony with as reasonably good a facsimile of Feliciano’s helpless look as he was capable of when on the verge of rich, wine soaked, laughter.  
  
A hand settled at his waist as he fluttered his eyelashes and continued his story, “I believe that we won Ludwig when Feliciano climbed into his lap, just like this, and said, Oh, Ludwig...”  
  
“Wait,” Jos interrupted, voice graveled and low, “Am I supposed to be pretending to be the German?”  
  
Francis smiled at the very thought of Jos pretending to be anyone other than who he was, stroking his hand over Jos’ chest, flirting happily, “Not at all, my darling. You should be exactly as you are, always! I wouldn’t have you any other way!”  
  
“Just as I am?” Jos asked, staring hard at Francis for a long moment before he tipped them both forward slightly, the chair rolling under the tangle of their shared weight, “In that case....”  
  
Francis startled with disappointment when Jos moved them once more, one long hand reaching towards the desk, causing the start of his inevitable slide from his comfortable seat astride Jos’ fine lap, saddened that Jos would treat him so dismissively when they were having such a good time. He fully expected to feel the thudding impact of his rear end unceremoniously meeting the floor until the hand at his waist tightened, holding him firmly in place while he watched in surprise as the other rifled for some unknown object.  
  
He could not help the peels of warm, affectionate laughter that bounced off the sparse walls of Jos’ office when he was properly settled in his rightful spot once again, resting his head against a broad chest and watching Jos click through his Blackberry.  
  
Francis in one hand and work in the other! Such a masterful move, so clever and so true! Oh, but Jos was such a delight!  
  
“Do continue,” Jos said, voice so smug that Francis could not help but smother it with his lips, kissing Jos for his wonderful performance, for how sweetly he played their game, for making no mention of the moves Francis made outside their board. As he slipped his tongue into Jos’s smirking mouth, he noticed from the corner of his eye that Jos still held the Blackberry at arm’s length, scrolling through emails as Francis kissed him breathless.  
  
‘My magnificent, surprising, Netherlands!’ Francis thought as he pulled at Jos’ hair and bit his lip.  
  
“Yes, perfect just as you are!” Francis declared with rich amusement against Jos’ still parted mouth before falling into the kiss that Jos didn’t even know he was waiting to give him.  
  
So amused, light with happiness and wine, Francis laughed, knowing that his mouth would be filled for days with the taste of victory, believing that he would not forget what it was to kiss his Jos’ smile.


	2. "Denmark"

“Are you sure this alright?” Antonio asked, giving Francis a wavering smile even as helped himself to more of the very nice vodka that came as part of the very nice bottle service in the very nice VIP lounge in a very nice club in Stockholm.   
  
‘No,’ Francis thought with glee, it was almost certainly not alright to be putting such luxuries on the Blue Tulip tab, but it was going to be so worth it sit in his chair in Jos’ office and enjoy the way his jaw ticked with irritation as he lectured Francis on proper expenditures. He considered ordering a private dance from one of the delectable go-go boys just to see how much Jos could grind his teeth before Francis gave in and kissed him until he forgot that he was supposed to be annoyed.   
  
He’d never played such a blatant game before, but he knew that Jos enjoyed a stern scolding on the value of money far too much to call Francis on the obviousness of his ploy.   
  
“Shut the fuck up, loser, and just enjoy the awesomeness without asking questions,” Gilbert cackled, propping his feet on the booth and stretching his arms behind Francis’ shoulders and squeezing him with more rough affection that the situation really seemed to merit, but then Gilbert rarely did anything by halves.   
  
“Eat, drink, and be as merry as you will, boys,” Francis answered with an absent wink, too busy being willingly distracted by the blond ball of energy on the dance floor, making his presence so known it was almost impossible to look at anything else in the room.   
  
Francis had a feeling this was a man that demanded attention, dragged it stubbornly even from the most reluctant spectators, conquering them with his wild eyes and mussed hair, and that sharp, commanding grin that seemed never to slip or waver, even when wrapped around the mouth of one of the many beer bottles he’d had in his hands.   
  
Gilbert tugged his attention away from way his new-found friend’s pants rode dangerously low on some quite remarkable hips, shouting far too loudly, “There you fucking have it, Toni! Permission from his Lordship to make the most of his expense account munificence!”   
  
Francis watched as Antonio polished off another drink, already reaching for another even as he continued his lazy Doubting Thomas routine, “But Francis is sleeping with the boss.”   
  
Gilbert chuckled and rolled his eyes at Antonio, favoring Francis with another vicious expression of his affection in the form of a hearty slap to his thigh, “Francis always sleeps with the boss. How is this fucking relevant to our night of booze and bad behavior?”   
  
Francis laughed lightly, eyes following the progress of his Scandinavian scandal as he climbed atop one of the platforms and blessed the entranced crowd with a surprisingly well done dirty dance.   
  
“He’s your boss, not mine, Toni. And I don’t always sleep with the boss, Gil,” Francis sing-songed.   
  
‘Really,’ Francis mused, ‘friends with good memories were such a bore. Sleep with a professor here and a director there and suddenly they feel as though they have your number!’   
  
“Only the attractive ones that you wanted something from!” Gilbert snarked, clinking his glass against Antonio’s as they shared in the delight of making fun of the friend who was so generously underwriting their evening.   
  
Gilbert rolled right over Francis’ protesting huff of denial, voice ripe with casual mockery, “So does this latest poor sucker meet those difficult qualifications? Does the bastard have any idea what he’s in for by taking a ride on the good ship Francis?”   
  
Francis demurred from responding, unexpectedly stung by the accusation; uninterested in confirming his friends’ opinions of his motives, let alone offering his dearest Tweedledum and Tweedledee more fuel for their teasing fires by telling them that, yes, in fact, Jos did rise to those standards... and very beautifully indeed.   
  
More fool everyone who could not see the attraction of a man like Jos, for all that Francis was pleased that no one had taken the time to properly appreciate all that could hide behind numbers and cold eyes.   
  
Antonio sighed mightily, breaking Francis’ strange silence as though he were weighted down by Jos’ dislike he could bear the burden no longer, “But this boss hates me!”   
  
“What? That’s crazy! Who the fuck hates you, Toni?” GIlbert exclaimed, leaning across Francis’ lap to grasp Antonio’s chin and shake his head in evident disapproval.   
  
Mumbling through forcibly pursed lips, Antonio managed to convey his great sadness, “The owner of the Studio. He’s almost as mean as Lovino, but far less cute. And he hates me for real.”   
  
Taking advantage of his reprieve from questioning, Francis chuckled and shoved Gilbert’s weight from his legs to move the head that was now inconsiderately preventing Francis from making a proper study of the antics of his catch of the night.   
  
Gilbert punched him, glaring at him from far too near a distance, “What the hell, Francis! Why does your new plaything hate Toni? What kind of asshole is this guy? How could you sleep with someone who can resist that face?”   
  
Antonio fluttered his eyelashes and gave Francis his best soulful gaze full of Spanish sunshine and the heat of Flamenco.   
  
“Stop that, you wretched thing! As though I didn’t personally teach you that look when you were but a directionless and broke cliche of a young man!” Francis teased before continuing archly, “And, to be clear, Jos dislikes you because you are indolent and careless and you smile too much. Namely, all the reasons Gil and I adore you so entirely. And, really, aren’t we the only ones who matter?”   
  
Antonio smiled winningly for a moment before his face took on a far more devious look as he peered around Francis to smirk at Gilbert, “He also hates me because he caught me sleeping with our favorite Frenchman.”   
  
“Oooh, netted yourself a jealous one this time, Francis?” Gilbert leered nastily, making Francis’ stomach turn with uncomfortable annoyance.   
  
Antonio grinned lazily at him, “From the way he lets Francis camp out in his office, I’d say Francis is his favorite decoration. He was probably very mad that I put my hands on his valuable property.”   
  
Francis bristled at the implication, “Decoration? Coming from you, that’s just offensive, my darling.”   
  
Antonio just smiled blithely at him while Gilbert laughed and laughed.   
  
“Regardless, you’re being ridiculous, Toni. Jos is perfectly aware of who I am and has no misconceptions as to what’s between us.” Francis scoffed, swallowing too much vodka, wincing through the burn.   
  
“I’m not so sure,” Antonio ventured teasingly, scratching his head, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him wait for anyone else at work like he does for you, like he was that night we were together.”   
  
Gilbert’s cackle grated on his nerves as he took up the onslaught of harassment, “Heheheh, do you think he was standing outside the door trying to decide if he wanted to jerk off before or after kicking your ass, Toni?”   
  
Antonio laughed happily, poking Francis in the side, “To think I could have died for having the same fuck I’ve had a hundred times over!”   
  
_Bastards._   
  
“Jos simply works long hours. Something that I know you are entirely unfamiliar with, dearest Toni, but that needn’t be a reason to presume motivations other than ensuring a business well run,” Francis replied silkily, with just enough steel in his response to warn Antonio and Gilbert that he was less than amused by this particular line of conversation.   
  
Much to his disappointment and total lack of surprise, neither man took the hint, as Gilbert continued crowing about Francis having a stalker boyfriend while Antonio egged him on with his intoxicated laughter.   
  
But only moments later, as Francis watched his latest object of desire make his way towards the bar, Antonio’s voice was unusually considering as he put his hand on Francis’ knee and said, “If you say so, of course, you would know best, but I just sometimes can’t figure out what you’re doing with him. If you know what you’re doing with him.”   
  
Gilbert chimed in helpfully, baring his teeth in a vicious grin that further needled Francis, “Yeah, he sounds like an ass! Hating on Antonio, hallway stalking, workaholic, cheapskate. So what’s the deal? What’s this guy got that you want so bad?”   
  
‘As if you could understand,’ Francis thought haughtily, ‘As if you could fathom what it is to have such a challenging sweetness before you and not want to devour it all at once because then the fun would be over and you would be hungry again.’   
  
Francis swallowed his irritation with the remainder of his drink, pushing up with quick grace from the booth, to wink saucily at his smirking friends, “Sorry, my loves, but I don’t kiss and tell!”   
  
Antonio started and Gilbert gaped, making them both look very foolish, which soothed the lingering burn of his displeasure.   
  
“Since when, you fucker? We’ve never been able to get you shut-up about your screwed up dalliances before!” Gilbert demanded as Francis tossed his credit card on the table.   
  
“Since I have work to do,” Francis answered smoothly, waving absently towards the bar and his waiting conquest, averting any further questions by turning and sauntering away, trying to tamp down on his desire to go back and throttle his friends for daring to know him so well.   
  
His reticence surprised him a little, but then the taste of Jos was so wonderfully complex and mysterious, so new and addicting, it was little wonder he didn’t want to share with anyone. He wanted to hoard all his little pieces to his lovely Dutch puzzle until he could slide them all together under his wanting fingers and treasure the completed picture as his alone.   
  
‘How could anyone possibly understand their dance, their unspoken rules and regulations, when half the fun of the game was that even Francis was largely left to guess at the cards that Jos held so tightly within his hand?’ Francis thought as he wove his way through the crowd, eyes fixed firmly on his target.   
  
The man in question was wiping sweat from his forehead, grin almost brighter than the strobe lights, rocking on his heels as he leaned on the bar, licking his lips in delightfully obvious invitation when Francis met his gaze and looked him over approvingly.   
  
This one, Francis knew, was no blushing flower. This one, this lovely, cocksure young thing with his restless exuberance, he wanted Francis to look at him. He so desperately, so obviously wanted everyone to see him.   
  
Well, Francis was happy to oblige, happy to give this showstopper a reason to demand that everyone watch him and want him.   
  
He smiled slow and hot as he continued to make his way through the mass of winding and rolling bodies. It felt so good to revert to those skills he had learned when he was but a untrained cub prowling the bars and clubs and learning the tricks of his trade. He swung his hips side to side as he walked, knowing how pretty a picture he made with his hair tied over one shoulder and the lights flickering over his face, finally ready to make his opening attack when he felt the insistent vibration of the phone pressed against his leg.   
  
Without breaking stride, he dug the phone from his pocket, winking at his soon to be new friend before checking to see who on earth could possibly need him so urgently at such a time of night.   
  
_From: Jos  
Do not dawdle abroad. The F idiots are bothering me. Your responsibility._   
  
Francis couldn’t help but sigh fondly. He could at least say please! Jos did have such a charming economy with his words, even when making what could only be a pleading cry for his assistance in dealing with dear Feliks and Feliciano. He knew the situation must have been dire if they were still at work so late.   
  
His poor Jos, next time he scampered off on the hunt he would have to remember to tell his most excitable Tulips to leave the Big Bad Wolf alone when Big Brother wasn’t there to pet him into submission.   
  
Francis looked up to make sure he had not lost sight of his intended, holding up one finger before typing a quick reply:   
  
_For goodness sake, my darling, go out and do what everyone does when work is too much to bear! Find a friend, get drunk, and, if you like, get laid!_   
  
That he received two messages in rapid succession warmed him as surely as his expensive vodka, the words making him laugh as he finally sidled up next to the bar:   
  
_From: Jos  
Is that what you’re doing?  
  
From: Jos  
Spending our hard earned money?_   
  
And though he could see that his Nordic native was growing restless, Francis gave in as he always did to returning Jos’ taunt, allowing himself one last retort before turning off the phone and putting their rapport on hold for another day when he could properly appreciate the beauty of Jos’ reluctant approbation in person.   
  
_I thought by now I had proven how well business mixes with pleasure. If only you were here, you could learn from the master. Now leave me be and go have some fun while I work!_   
  
He indulged for a moment in the daydream of what it would be like to have Jos with him now, watching him set a gentle trap for this eager play, how intoxicating, how arousing.   
  
He filed away the thought for the future, suddenly determined to wrest Jos from behind the comfort of his desk, before he turned the power of his full, undivided attention to the next item on his to-do list.   
  
Francis leaned into the hot, slickness of the stranger’s personal space, endeavoring to make his voice heard, “You put on quite the show. I could hardly look away.”   
  
“Heh, if you enjoyed it so much, how about buying me a drink?” The showstopper answered with a wicked grin that tickled Francis to his core.   
  
“With pleasure,” Francis shouted over the bass, pleased when his confident friend shuffled in closer to hear him purr, “I’m Francis.”   
  
“Jens.”   
  
Francis returned Jens’ cocky smile, wordlessly assuring him that he knew and approved of all Jens’ less than pure intentions. Ah, it was so lovely to be able to read such easy desire in a handsome face.   
  
Francis ordered Jens his drink, giving the bartender a look that guaranteed he’d be paying for none of it, enjoying the prickling sensation of being watched on the back of his neck.   
  
“Hey, you look familiar. Do I know you from somewhere?” Jens shouted at him, boldly putting a hand on Francis’ waist as he stared.   
  
‘Oh, it was always nice to meet fans,’ Francis mused delightedly, quickly tossing out half of his plan, knowing that half the battle was already won.   
  
Francis smirked, canting his body into Jens’ space, “I would say that depends on your taste in films for a more adult audience.”   
  
Jens’ eyes widened, his smile blazing with satisfaction as he crowed, “Holy shit, you’re that guy from that totally epic porn, Hundred Year Something or Other.”   
  
Francis laughed and pressed closer, “One and the same. I’m flattered you recognize me! How much nicer for me that someone so hot should also have such refined taste!”   
  
“Damn right I do,” Jens answered smugly as he palmed the shot the bartender handed him, blathering on excitedly, “Fuck, I can’t believe I’m talking to a porn star! Best fucking graduation present ever!”   
  
“Graduation?” Francis answered happily, knowing that this time of transition was so ripe for his special guidance, covering the hand still resting on his waist as he flirted, “Many happy returns. I hope you studied hard.”   
  
Jens turned to him, grinning wolfishly, eyes hot with the excited arrogance of youth and that daring confidence that Francis was starting to believe was as unique to him as Feliciano’s trusting guilelessness and Antonio’s carefree warmth.   
  
“How about I teach you something I learned in the States?” Jens asked and Francis could practically taste Jens’ pride in actually believing there was something he was going to teach the porn star.   
  
“With pleasure,” Francis answered smoothly, letting his eyes fall shut with feigned anticipation, holding back his laughter when Jens pushed a lime between his lips, far too gratified to find that his theory that this man was young and wild enough to back down from no challenge, would rush headlong after anything he believed he wanted so delightfully and quickly confirmed.   
  
How adorably audacious he was to think someone like Francis had never experienced something so mundane as a body shot!   
  
Francis had the feeling that even if Jens believed he was hardly showing such a well practiced dog new tricks he would try this anyways, would still drag his tongue up Francis’ neck as bold as brass.   
  
Because he could.   
  
And when Francis tasted the tang of tequila on his lips and felt the touch of Jens’ assuming mouth, he knew that he had found another rare bloom to take home to their garden, already relishing the chance to cultivate this beautifully bold never shrinking violet with his restless body and stubbornly demanding face.   
  
As Jens pulled away, Francis tried not to gloat as he watched the rippling swallow of Jens’ throat, choosing instead to let Jens see how impressed he was, how truly taken he was by Jens, if not for the reason the dear boy presumed.   
  
Unsurprised that such a man would recklessly push at the barest hint of an advantage, Francis allowed Jens’ kiss, parting his lips and drinking in all his secrets.   
  
Francis imagined he would fuck just like this...forceful and heated, all presumption and enthusiasm, with the touch of sloppy eagerness that betrayed his youth but also spoke of his promise to be so wonderfully willing to try anything once.   
  
With the right partner to temper that fire that burned every so slightly too hot, Francis knew Jens could be a force to be reckoned with, the potential to be the empire builder for which he had been looking.   
  
He couldn’t wait to tell Jos, to share this discovery with him, to have his darling skeptic watch and reluctantly admire as Francis carved a star from such rough and ready stone.   
  
And so when Jens shoved him against the door of his hotel room and presumed to bite at his lips, Francis smiled and moaned and let himself be taken, though he had thought only to make his sales pitch when he’d licked the lingering salt from Jens’ mouth and asked him if they might go somewhere more quiet to talk.   
  
After all, it was little hardship to endure for the good of the Tulip being flung to the bed by a man with something to prove, who came at him like a wildcat, talked far too much, and showed such wonderfully little fear at the prospect of fucking a man who he knew had more experience, more skill, more everything than he did.   
  
It was as though Jens was certain he could win any battle through endurance and enthusiasm, that he was certain to make Francis acknowledge his greatness if he just gave it his all as he gamely set out to conquer the renowned territory of Francis’ body.   
  
When Jens had pushed him on to his knees, running his hands over his hips and legs almost as much as he ran his arrogant mouth, Francis chuckled darkly and asked, “Tell me, pet, where are you from?”   
  
And when Jens had slapped the hot skin of his thighs and responded, “Denmark,” he’d almost come from the sheer perfection of it all.   
  
What a story this would be to tell!   
  
It was so invigorating and promising that Francis only spared a momentary thought for how badly Gilbert and Antonio would punish him and the credit card he had left as hush money while he moaned his approval and came into Jens’ determined hands.   
  
He craved a smoke in the aftermath as he waited for Jens to regain enough awareness to be sensible of the offer Francis wanted to make. It amused him deeply to read the smug “I fucked a porn star” haze in Jens’ face that provided such a lovely and convenient reassurance that his second and far more critical seduction would not fail.   
  
Francis turned on his side, deepening his breathing and smiling prettily, “That was quite good! I’ve no doubt you’ll make quite the impression on your post-collegiate world if you do everything with such enthusiasm.”   
  
“Damn right,” Jens answered hotly, winking at Francis like an old pro as he laughed and smiled happily.   
  
“So what’s next for you?”   
  
Jens smirked, though the wistful edge in his voice gave him away, “Hell if I know! Now that I’ve gotten a degree, done Stockholm, and fucked a pornstar, I guess I’m just looking for that next big adventure!”   
  
Francis felt victory curl around him as sure and sultry as the warmth of his climax, touching his hand to Jens’ chest and purring, “Now that you’ve fucked a pornstar, how about becoming one yourself?”   
  
Jens sat up so abruptly with eyes so wild that Francis almost laughed when he gripped the sheets and stared at him with such enthusiastic curiosity and asked, “Seriously?”   
  
“Absolutely, my darling Dane! You’ve got something special, something I want the world to see!” Francis answered warmly, continuing, “My name is Francis Bonnefoy and as the Artistic Director for The Blue Tulip Studios, I want to you to come work for me, to sail towards a new horizon and conquer all of your unknowns.”   
  
“Holy fuck, I’m good!” Jens chortled as he flopped down on the bed and smiled.   
  
Francis indulged him with a wink and a nod, “You most certainly are! But believe me when I promise you that I can make you even better. If you come work for me, I will make you the best.”   
  
And there it was, that hitch in Jens’ chest and the clench of the jaw that told Francis he had won his prize.   
  
Jens took a breath and Francis held his.   
  
“I’m in,” Jens declared resolutely and Francis started to wonder how soon he could catch a flight back to Amsterdam, only to finally give into his desire to laugh delightedly when Jens grabbed him by the wrist and asked in all earnest sincerity:   
  
“Hey, if he’s hot and hung like a Norse god, can I bring a friend?”


	3. A Visit from England

Francis was in a wonderful mood as he floated through the front doors of the Blue Tulip Studios, feeling as though he was striding under the Arc de Triomphe. It was the kind of mood that could only be born from the rare mix of great sex and the unshakable sense that everything was going his way. His back still twinged from the enthusiasm of his stunning Danish recruit and his expense account allowance had taken quite the hit from the enthusiasm of his absolutely wretched best friends, but Francis could not contain his ebullience.   
  
There was a spring in his step and a smile on his face as he waved merrily at Feliciano, Feliks, and Ludwig and made a beeline for his favorite place in the building. Oh, he did so love days like these, when his heart raced with the excitement of returning home victorious to stride into the office of the only man he still cared to impress with his prowess to find....   
  
“Arthur?!” Francis spluttered shrilly, his good mood immediately withering away and dying at the sight of those awful eyebrows and hideously smug grin. He stood on the threshold of the office, regretting the glass of wine he’d cheerfully had with lunch as a toast to himself, wondering if it was making him hallucinate the unfortunate scene before him; namely, Arthur sitting in the very chair he always appropriated, having what appeared to be a very genial discussion with Jos.   
  
“Oh, wonderful, the entertainment has arrived,” Arthur spat, rolling his eyes at Francis before turning his attention back to Jos.   
  
Francis felt his skin itch in instant irritation, and he knew that the tension in his shoulders and the ugliness of his smirk gave him away entirely as he looked towards Jos for some reasonable explanation as to why this British harpy was in his castle. But he found no answers in Jos’ inscrutable face, only the surprise of finding himself being more closely considered since the afternoon when he had gone to his knees in the emptiness of this very office.   
  
He endeavored to cool his temper, sliding around the chairs to lean against the side of Jos’ desk, pushing into his space, pointedly ignoring the ensuing huff of displeasure and smiling nastily at Arthur, “And to what do we owe the dubious pleasure of your company, Arthur?”   
  
It was, perhaps, Francis reflected, a move that revealed far too much of his hand, but Arthur always had been one to make him feel as though he would never be more than the young and stupid boy with something to prove that he’d been when they had first met so many years go.   
  
Arthur frowned at him, clearly unamused by Francis’ little display, arching a hateful brow as he ran his disparaging gaze over the long lines of Francis’ legs to the hip that rested familiarly over some financial statement or another. Francis bared his teeth in a wicked grin, wishing for a moment that he was alone with his most loved enemy so they could say all the horrid things he could read in the angry flush on Arthur’s face. It had been far too long since he had let loose the fullness of his fury.   
  
The touch of Jos’ fingers to his wrist stilled him, the almost never heard hint of curiosity in his voice making him want to shove Jos down and tease him open until he could discern whether or not that curiosity was for him or for lesser beings.   
  
“Arthur’s been advising me on the best methods for contracting and licensing outside of Europe, as he has had more experience in these arenas.”   
  
Francis tilted his head to smile prettily at Jos, shifting in closer to answer, “I see,” holding Jos’ gaze, chasing that spark of interest until Arthur cleared his throat like the vile creature he was been to gleefully inform him:   
  
“Yes, Jos was kind enough to ask me to help guide his company through this period of growth, since, as you know, I’ve been through a successful expansion with more than one business venture. Such a shame there wasn’t anyone in-house he could turn to for assistance in these matters.”   
  
Francis gritted his teeth under the veneer of a smile, refusing to give Arthur the satisfaction of losing his temper and throttling the Brit where he sat in his awful khaki pants looking as maddeningly self-satisfied as the first time Francis laid eyes on him in their posh boarding school in Calais.   
  
Arthur just looked at him as though he knew every little thought racing through Francis’ mind and Francis hated that it was very likely true, that too many years of being at each others throats, competing as they chased the same goals, the same women and men, trapped together in a place far too small to contain their egos and ambition had made it so there were few ugly secrets between them.   
  
All that before they went to the same university and then marched resolutely into the world of entertainment, Arthur building up an impressive list of clients as a consultant with top rated releases and recruits to his name while Francis built up an impressive list of top selling films. For years, they had dogged each others footsteps as they tread a path of mutual loathing and occasional begrudging respect into adulthood, seeming unable to get the hell away from one another.   
  
And now here he was again, Francis thought with tired disdain, crashing another party he to which he most certainly wasn’t invited simply because he had some knowledge about the inner workings of global commerce as it pertained to film distribution.   
  
Awful bastard. The dirtiest fighter Francis had ever had the displeasure of knowing, with ambition and resilience enough to have bested him on several less than memorable occasions.   
  
“Oh, well, how marvelous that you could take time to share your invaluable insights with us,” Francis purred, narrowing his eyes and licking his lips, “Though I imagine you do have more time on your hands since that little incident in the States.”   
  
The taste of Arthur’s badly concealed anger was delicious and Francis would have pushed it further,  would have tested if he could taunt his oldest foe into an explosive departure had Jos not broken the stand-off by scraping his chair back from the desk, regaining the attention of the room.   
  
For a wild moment, he wanted to snap at Jos, ask him what he thought he was doing ruining a perfectly good argument, demand to know why he’d invited this interloper into their world if he didn’t want Francis to have any fun sharpening his claws on the best scratching post he’d ever encountered.   
  
Francis watched Jos watching him, eyes alight with cold interest and something that might possibly have been amusement as he said, “Francis, I have business to discuss with Arthur, if this can wait.”   
  
Francis smiled and winked at him, even as his throat filled with scores of taunts and insulting responses to lob like grenades at the smirking target of Arthur’s face, so assured that he had scored some sort of victory.   
  
“Certainly,” Francis demurred, giving Jos a low, hot look, “You know where to find me.”   
  
As he left the room he only hoped that Arthur had been able to see out from under his monumental eyebrows to witness the answering spark of heat in Jos’ stare.   
  
~~~   
  
Good mood entirely wrecked on the shores of Dover, Francis absconded to his office, digging through his drawers for the something to mask the lingering bitter taste of Arthur in his mouth, feeling momentarily cheered when he uncovered a bottle of brandy hidden under a pile of old scripts.   
  
Gods, Arthur drove him insane. The only comfort, other than the burn of alcohol down his throat, was knowing that the feeling was entirely mutual. He wondered why it was they never had managed to break free of the others orbit, continuing to circle each other every few months or years to wreak havoc or simply draw blood in bored familiarity. In his darker moments, he suspected they sometimes did it for the fun of it all, for the awful thrill of baiting an enemy so intimate just to see how deeply one could wound the other before calling truce.   
  
That suspicion grew when Arthur pushed through the door only twenty minutes and two glasses later, settling on his couch and holding out a hand, asking for his share of their once favorite poison without saying a word.   
  
Francis acquiesced, smiling into Arthur’s cold, flat, glare as he gave him his drink and sat beside him, fluttering his eyelashes at him in that way he knew Arthur despised, “How lovely of you to drop by on what I hope is your way out.”   
  
Arthur’s answering chuckle was rife with mockery and anger, “How could I leave without telling you how impressed I am by your burgeoning empire?”   
  
“That’s so kind, Arthur!” Francis trilled, “But, really, its not my empire! This little garden, its all Jos’, I just tend the flowers and make them grow.”   
  
“Oh, cut the shit, you irritating fucker,” Arthur growled, “You think all of this is yours. Including the man you’ve obviously chosen as your shiny new toy. You must feel so pleased, thinking you've stumbled your way into such a lovely game of cat and mouse, all while having an entire playground for your amusement.”   
  
Francis frowned in irritation, stalking away to pour another shot to drown out Arthur, only to regret that his back was turned when Arthur shoved in his knife and twisted,   
  
“I think I’ll enjoy watching it all come crumbling down around you. Including your Dutch house of cards.”   
  
Francis burned, “Why ever would you think such a thing would happen? Speaking from personal experience, hmm, Arthur?”   
  
He could hear Arthur stand-up, the stupid shuffle of his awful pants ringing in his ears before Arthur spat, “Because I have personal experience with you, you French bastard. You’re greedy and reckless and blind to a fault. At least someone forced my hand to failure, you’ll destroy it all yourself.”   
  
Eyes clenched shut, Francis swallowed the remainder of his drink, “Careful, darling, or I’ll feel moved to some sort of retaliation.”   
  
“Go right ahead, Frog,” Arthur taunted, as though he believed there was nothing Francis could to do to him, could take from him. The sound of his laughter rippled across the office, the echoes of it grating and pulsing in time with the hum of his anger, the unexpected rush he felt from being challenged so openly, so viciously.   
  
‘Oh, I will,’ Francis mused darkly, already plotting and planning, mapping out all he knew about Arthur in this current moment to ascertain his greatest weakness, where he could repay the favor of digging a knife into a vital organ.   
  
Francis turned, catching Arthur just as he reached he door, calling out to him, “You know, my dear, if we continue on thusly, we’ll end up miserable and bitter, with only each other for company.”   
  
“Heavens forfend,” Arthur muttered, rolling his eyes, and finally, blessedly walking away, leaving Francis to the only recourse there possibly was after such a battle.   
  
~~~   
  
When, some indiscriminate time later, his door slid open and closed once again, Francis didn’t even lift his arm from over his eyes as he rested on his couch, floating on just enough brandy to feel warm and loose.   
  
“Do stop looming in the doorway and come sit down,” Francis said snappily, moving his feet just enough to allow for the dip of another body settling at the other end, “Also, you smoke too much, I could smell you from the moment you walked in.”   
  
“You’ve never complained before,” Jos said with such curious complaisance that Francis flung his arm from his eyes, blinking into the dim evening light to stare at the curve of Jos’ jaw.   
  
Francis sighed mightily, feeling the brandy heat his cheeks, a queer petulance bubbling up as he took in Jos’ relaxed countenance, poking him in the thigh with his toes as he groused, “By the way, darling, when I told you to go out and find a friend, I most certainly did not mean Eyebrows!”   
  
Jos grabbed his feet within his cold hands, stilling their assault by shoving them on his lap, arching his eyebrows as he mouthed, “Eyebrows?”   
  
Francis wiggled his toes within Jos’ grasp, wondering if he could persuade the man to rub his feet in apology for letting in the British plague, waving a dramatic hand, “Oh, Arthur, of course! How on earth do you even know him?”   
  
Jos peered at him with a strange and not entirely unattractive expression as he answered succinctly, “He’s got a wide range of consulting experiences I find valuable. We’ve crossed paths professional over the years.”   
  
Francis pouted and tried to pull his feet away, wanting to find more brandy if he had to continue to talk about Arthur when he would rather try and understand this puzzling new beauty in Jos’ gaze and thin lips.   
  
“Wretched little boy. Even more wretched man,” Francis mumbled to himself, stopping his diatribe as the grip on his feet gentled, the touch of Jos’ fingers soft enough to distract him from his ire.   
  
Jos spoke softly, voice as blank as polished silver, “I’ve never seen you behave quite so....”   
  
For a moment, Francis enjoyed the weight of the silence and the lightness of the caress on his skin, warmth pooling in his chest, an idle thought that tonight he was the one being played crossing his hazy mind.   
  
Ah, but this, this kind of lover’s war was so much more pleasant and welcome than the slings and arrows of Arthur’s hideous fortune. This, he would not only endure, but enjoy.   
  
He smiled darkly at Jos, pushing his feet further into the teasing touch, “So immaturely? Recklessly? Meanly?”   
  
The brief stilling of the hands sweeping up his ankles gave away Jos’ surprise at Francis’ frankness, his voice considering as he murmured, “You’re being quite upfront this evening.”   
  
‘And it intrigues you,’ Francis realized with glee, delighted beyond all measure to know that the spark of interest had been his and his alone all along, that Jos had been watching him, trying to parse out his reactions to Arthur.   
  
With careless insistence, he wormed his foot out of Jos’ grasp, pushing it up his chest, remember how he hotly he had kissed the arch of it that night in that empty bedroom in Paris, responding with easy honesty, “My darling, I have known Arthur for far too long to be coy about my feelings for him.”   
  
Jos eyed him with wary amusement, giving only his curiosity away, as Francis continued his slow assault, taking his wrist by the hand and running his nails over the tender skin below his palm, enjoying the thrumming pulse beneath his touch.   
  
“And those would be?” Jos asked carefully, turning to push between the spread of Francis’ legs.   
  
Francis sighed and licked his lips, taking Jos’ hand and settling it on his thigh, feeling his cock grow hard with every second that Jos left it sitting there, as warm and wonderful as the glint of something deep and dark in his gaze.   
  
He met that gaze, thrilling to it like a moth to a flame, answering slyly, “Arthur makes me come undone like no one else.”   
  
The hand on his thigh shifted deliciously lower and Francis was so happy he could have laughed but that would have broken this marvelous moment, would have driven Jos from touching him the way Francis so earnestly desired, depriving him of the unexpected pleasure of hearing Jos ask,   
  
“Does he now?”   
  
Francis fisted a hand in Jos’ shirt, dragging him closer, welcoming the sudden press of a palm against his cock, demanding his full attention.   
  
“Oh, yes, we loathe each other so entirely, I think sometimes it must be the opposite side of love,” Francis whispered against the parting of Jos’ lips, close enough to see the slow, soft turn of his most wicked smile, the one that always told Francis when he had said something as wonderfully dark and pleasing as the black of profit.   
  
The buttons of his pants came apart as Jos pushed him down onto the cushions, looming beautifully above, voice dry with humor as he asked, “So, I shouldn’t hire him then?”   
  
Francis arched into the slide of the hand that came hot and tight around his cock, keeping his eyes wide open as he smirked at Jos, dropping all pretense and propriety as he panted obscenely, “Fuck, no.”   
  
He congratulated Jos for the masterful timing of his bruising kiss, the first scrape of his teeth over Francis’ lip done just so as the hand on his cock shifted downwards, sure and insistent, wringing a hot, filthy moan from his throat. Jos kissed methodically but deeply, searching out all the corners of his mouth and the dips of his throat that gained him the greatest reaction, the loudest sigh, the most fervent shudder. He touched him like a possession that needed to be disassembled and reassembled so that it could be made to dance to the owner’s specifications.   
  
And, oh, Francis was willing to let Jos uncover him time and time again, let him seek out the many mysteries of Francis’ body and mind, for with each searching touch and taste, he left secrets of his own on Francis’ greedy, wanting tongue.   
  
Francis shifted, pushing up on his elbows so he could drink in the lovely sight of Jos’ large hand moving over his cock, the pale fingers brushing over the tip and then down and under, teasing him intent as they rubbed against his thighs, his balls, and just into the curve of his ass. Francis rewarded Jos with the gasp he sought, heart racing, breath coming in as hard and heavy as the sweet exhalations against his neck, the smell of smoke filling his nose as he filled his mind with the memory of Jos’ becoming slick and wet with his come.   
  
As his blood cooled and the sparks faded, Francis met Jos’ kiss, sighing his lingering pleasure into his mouth, wishing that the couch were big enough so he could pull Jos entirely over his body to luxuriate in his heat and arousal, to drown the heaviness of his skin and smell until he was ready to come all over again.   
  
“I wish we were in a bed,” Francis murmured dreamily as Jos broke their kiss, sliding one of Francis’ lazy hands to rest over his cock.   
  
“Then stop coming on to me in the office,” Jos said blandly, even while Francis unzipped his pants and dragged two fingers down the front of his underwear, absently tracing the outline of his cock.   
  
Francis knew the arch of his eyebrows betrayed his surprise, the twist of his smile revealing his delight at such an unexpected gift, “Oh? I shall have to keep that in mind.”   
  
And as he pushed Jos to rest against the cushions, sliding fluidly to his knees on the floor, a wicked idea started to form in his thoughts, almost as wonderfully bitter as the taste of Jos’ cock in his mouth.   
  
Jos was hard and ready, delighting Francis with the intensity of his response, hands already twining in his hair and taking control. Francis sighed happily and let him win this time, having already received so much that he could not help but want to let Jos have him as he would, taking him in deep and dragging his nails roughly across what naked skin he could, determined to ensure that the next time he had Jos they would be entirely bare.   
  
‘Oh, it was so perfect,’ Francis thought as Jos pressed a thumb against his lips, touching it to his cock while Francis looked at him, echoing the wanton heat in his gaze, already daydreaming about the pleasure he could have, if only he could get Jos to say yes.   
  
With a low groan, Jos arched off the couch and Francis pulled away, kissing him breathlessly as he stroked him through orgasm, wondering if Jos would complain when Francis had to pay to have the carpets cleaned. The thought amused him so deeply that he kissed Jos for moments longer, enjoying the sensation of holding him through the delicious downfall of orgasm.   
  
Jos seemed in no hurry to be released, returning his kiss with lazy precision, hands relaxed in his hair, making Francis believe there was no time like the present to push for an advantage.   
  
“Come with me to New York,” Francis murmured, climbing off the floor to settle in the warm looseness of Jos’ side.   
  
“New York? What for?” Jos asked, voice still rough with lingering desire.   
  
“There’s someone I want to recruit there,” Francis answered smoothly, nuzzling into Jos’ neck, running a hand over his chest, picturing the face of one Alfred Jones, formerly the biggest star of Arthur’s largest client.   
  
Rumor had it that Alfred was trying desperately to find someone to buy out the contract Arthur had negotiated for him, chafing under the restrictions, and making some very important people very unhappy with Arthur in the process.   
  
Jos snorted, shrugging Francis off, “And why should I spend money to join you in doing something you have proven to have no issue doing alone?”   
  
Francis was undeterred, “Oh, but it would be such a small expense, just a ticket. We could share the hotel room, of course, for cost savings.”   
  
Jos started buttoning his pants, “Still a waste. You do not need me to supervise your little outings to troll for your next victim.”   
  
The look in his eyes told Francis that he knew exactly what he had been up to in Stockholm and the dismissive barb stung, as though Jos truly believed that was Francis' only method of persuasion. Oh, he of little faith....   
  
Francis grabbed him by the neck, kissing him roughly, before breaking away to smirk, “I am going to assume by victim you meant the next source of income for the Blue Tulip. Besides, my darling, wouldn’t you like to be there for once to hold my purse-strings?”   
  
Jos glared at him, though Francis could see the idea taking root, the offer of control and oversight too tempting for Jos to totally deny.   
  
He brushed his lips softly over Jos’ scowling mouth, thinking of young Americans in need of generous and timely help to escape their awful British overlords, fantasizing about hotel beds and how gorgeous Jos would look spread on white sheets, bitching about the cost of such luxuries as Francis took liberties.   
  
“I want you to watch me work, help me make the sale,” Francis said hotly, feeling victory within his grasp, “I want you to see everything I do for us, for our business, so we can be great.”   
  
Francis swallowed his protestations, kissing him until they were both desperate for air, catching himself off guard with the fervency of it all.   
  
“Say yes,” Francis murmured, “Say you’ll come to New York. I promise it will be worth it.”


	4. "America"

Francis tried, albeit not very hard, to hide the vast majority of his smugness from Jos, which was proving quite difficult as they were currently sharing the relatively narrow confines of two business class seats on a direct flight from Schipol to JFK. Flying in comfort and luxury, just as Francis preferred, courtesy of some clandestine usage of his not insignificant stockpile of frequent flier miles.   
  
When Jos had discovered his wonderful deception, Francis had almost drowned in delight at the sight of Jos’ jaw clenching at the thought of two round-trip trans-atlantic business class fares. He’d let the man trail behind him through the indignities of security, happily allowing him to fume while he consumed all of their complimentary cocktails in the airport lounge, permitting Jos a good, long stew in his fiscal outrage right up until the seat-belt sign came on. At that point, Francis had decided the game had gone on long enough, taking pity on Jos’ poor, abused molars by leaning over to whisper, “Don’t worry, my pecuniary darling, these seats are courtesy of my ample airline miles. How quickly you forget that I once had a wild jet-setting life before I shackled myself to your slave-driving, coach-flying ways.”   
  
Though Francis couldn’t discern from Jos’ stony, glaring, silence whether or not he had enjoyed that as much as Francis, it was obvious enough that Jos’ ingrained sense of practicality had quickly taken over whatever outrage he felt at being so wonderfully outmaneuvered. Francis could hardly keep from commenting how comfortable Jos looked with his obscenely long legs stretched out before him, instead of cramped against some awful tray table in the coach seat he had insisted on buying when he’d finally caved and given into Francis’ proposal to join him in New York.   
  
Francis peeked at him from under his reading glasses, watching Jos stare out the window as the plane climbed towards cruising altitude, deeply, hungrily curious to know what exactly it was that had made him say yes. Was it the chance to watch Francis at work? Was it simple curiosity to know why Francis had asked him? Was it the opportunity to wind a gentle leash around Francis’ neck and curtail his more...explicit...methods of persuasion?   
  
Each possibility was fascinating, though each time he touched upon that last, dark, option on his multiple-choice test of Jos, it made something low and hot curl in his chest, dangerously irresistible.   
  
No matter the reason Jos had said yes, Francis was thrilled with the current state of affairs, as he needed Jos, needed his business acumen and razor blade negotiating skills to properly exact his revenge against Arthur by taking America’s adult industry golden boy safely behind his garden fence.   
  
That he had not had to ask Jos for this, that there had been no need to be explain his practical, logical need to get Jos to agree only made the journey that much sweeter. And so he was not terribly disappointed that Jos waited until they were twenty thousand feet in the air, steadily climbing in the direction of no going back to put down the in-flight magazine, fix him with a dry stare and ask:   
  
“Why am I here, exactly?”   
  
Francis smiled demurely, resting his hand on Jos’ arm, “Could it be that I just wanted the pleasure of your company away from the office in a beautiful city?”   
  
The sourness of Jos’, “No,” was sweetened by the glint of curiosity in his eyes.   
  
Francis pouted playfully at him while he reached for his traveling case, feeling Jos’ gaze follow his hands as they pulled out a folder, “You underestimate yourself, my darling.”   
  
“Wrong. It is more that I do not underestimate you,” Jos said with a voice like smoke that made Francis want to break his rule about sex on airplanes and slide to his knees and ask Jos to never stop such such lovely things to him.   
  
“Flatterer,” Francis purred, taking a moment to appreciate the edge of want they balanced upon before sliding the folder into his lap, ensuring his fingers brushed lightly over his crotch, “But as you’re bringing it up, there is, in fact, something you could assist me with in New York.”   
  
Francis faltered in the second that it took for the flash of something new and strange to come and go from Jos’ eyes before his world righted itself once again the familiar sardonic tilt of Jos’ head as he opened up the folder and starting perusing the documents Francis had so carefully prepared for just this moment.   
  
“Well?” Jos demanded impatiently without looking up and Francis could tell that he was already halfway gone, immersed in the facts and figures Francis was so hoping he could manipulate to their liking.   
  
He opened his mouth to answer only to turn at the light touch on his shoulder and be greeted by the very lovely sight of a handsome face smiling invitingly at him, pretty lips asking if he would care for another glass of wine.   
  
Francis returned the smile and warmly accepted, flirting in that easy way that was as natural to him as breathing, knowing from his many years of travel that being in the good graces of the flight crew always ensured the best treatment during the flight and occasionally special treatment after, were Francis so inclined to partake of that particular method of avoiding jetlag.   
  
When the charming man who he was now certain would not fail to ensure his glass remained full for the next six hours toddled off to fetch him more wine, Francis was surprised to find Jos watching him, expression edging into annoyance.   
  
“Sorry for the delay my dear,” Francis said smoothly, “But I do always feel its best to have alcohol on hand when discussing business such as this.”   
  
“Business such as whatever it is you’re planning for Arthur Kirkland’s most important U.S. client?” Jos asked lowly.   
  
Oh, but Francis adored the dark twists of Jos’ mind that would allow him to come to such a marvelously callous conclusion from only pages and pages of innocent numbers.   
  
Francis licked his lips in anticipation, leaning in close to murmur into Jos’ waiting ear, “I want Alfred Jones. I want to sever him from Arthur’s clinging, desperate attempts to keep him under contract. I need you to help me do this.”   
  
Jos pulled back to stare at Francis with that same addictive and inimitible intensity, voice dark and heavy when he said, “Arthur is a friend.”   
  
France curled his tongue over his teeth and purred, “So?”   
  
“You are terrible,” Jos answered, the hint of his smile a hot caress in Francis’ mind.   
  
“Perfectly,” Francis whispered before he parted his lips to permit Jos’ kiss, his silent, hot agreement to do as Francis asked.   
  
The kiss was too fleeting for Francis, he had barely had time to enjoy the taste of Jos’ complicity, to revel in the joining of their forces to foray into territory that Francis wanted so badly to rip from Arthur’s miserable little hands. To have such an ally was more than he could have ever dreamed.   
  
As the kiss broke, he heard an irritated huff behind him and found a glass of wine thrust with little care or concern in his face. It would seem Jos’ timely display of affection had just cost him his friendly flight attendant and very likely his endless supply of wine.   
  
Francis shifted in his seat to pout at Jos, who merely looked at him smugly and turned his attention back to the folio.   
  
Francis sighed as the flight attendant glared at him from the galley, looked mournfully at his wine and then at Jos.   
  
“You are terrible.”   
  
“Perfectly.”   
  
~~~~~~   
  
While he would have preferred the opulence of the Plaza, Francis could find no major fault in the hotel that Jos had chosen. Functional, practical, and conveniently located near several major adult film productions studios, as if Jos had known at that time of making the reservation exactly how Francis wished to deploy his services.   
  
The only complaint he had was that after watching Jos spend thirty minutes dutifully unpacking his small suitcases and methodically hanging each and every item of clothing (as though they were moving into this basic, bland room instead of spending three quick nights), Jos promptly ignored the way Francis was sprawled invitingly across the bed in favor of booting up his laptop.   
  
He could feel the lethargy of travel and the missing hours between home and here dragging him towards sleep, but he had so wanted to cash in on the promise of that kiss on the plane that had been so lovely he hadn’t even minded much that he his glass had remained tragically empty. Jos, however, it seemed had better things to do than work on his follow through, giving away all that wonderful intensity of focus to his computer instead of to Francis’ body.   
  
“Not tired?” Francis hinted, stretching out like a cat over the bed, hoping Jos would come over and stroke him.   
  
“I have work to do,” Jos grunted without even looking over at him, “I presume you want me to be prepared for the meeting I am presuming you’ve already set up.”   
  
Francis sighed and let go of his aspirations for a lazy roll in the sheets, leaving Jos to do what Jos did best, choose business over pleasure, “Yes, of course, my diligent worker bee.”   
  
“How much time do I have?” Jos asked brusquely, fingers clacking away at the keys while Francis made himself comfortable under the covers, idly wondering if Jos would come to bed at all that night.   
  
“Until the day after tomorrow,” Francis returned sleepily, “We have to trap our little American rabbit for ourselves before we make a show of setting him free.”   
  
Francis turned over the pillow to find Jos looking at him with that familiar cool interest, hands still poised over the keys as though begrudgingly sparing Francis a moment of their time.   
  
“How?”   
  
Francis smiled slowly, letting his eyes drift shut, curling into Jos’ attention, “Tomorrow I will show you.”   
  
Jos laughed lowly and the clicking of keys resumed, lulling Francis into drowsy comfort as he murmured, “And then I will show you.”   
  
~~~~~~   
  
“So, are you ready to watch me steal America’s shining porn star, my darling?” Francis said brightly as they sat together on one side of an ugly vinyl booth in a Brooklyn diner waiting for the man of the hour to arrive.   
  
Jos’ fingers stopped drumming on the table, voice suspiciously dry when he asked, “Naturally. But tell me, is this about the Studio or about your strange fixation with Arthur? ”   
  
Francis winced, for the first time regretting Jos’ shrewdness, feeling ever so much as though he were balancing on the razor’s edge.   
  
He answered carefully, refraining from touch and coquetry, giving Jos the benefit of his sincerity, “That this will wound Arthur is only an added bonus. I would have come after Jones regardless. His talent, while raw and young, is boundless. And I know that he will not be one to be tied down for long and so we must capitalize on this small window of opportunity to have him while we may.”   
  
“Fine.” Jos answered curtly, defrosting the tension between them and nodding his head in the direction of the strapping young man who was striding towards them, nearly blinding Francis with the brilliance of his wide, confident smile.   
  
“Alfred! My darling, how lovely to see you again!” Francis enthused, sliding from the booth to accept the man’s eager, too tight embrace.   
  
“Hahaha, of course it is!” Alfred laughed loudly as he released Francis from his grasp and shook his head, “Nah, I’m just kidding! It’s great to see you, too, man! I was so psyched to hear that you were going to be in town. It’s been like, what, two years?”   
  
Francis couldn’t help but be charmed all over again by Alfred, warming to the sunshine cheer of his voice, and the way he smiled so effortlessly at Francis, as though he truly meant every word he said.   
  
“I think you must be right! And so much as happened since I last had the pleasure, look at how you’ve grown, how much you’ve done!” Francis returned, lacing his voice with just enough flattery to watch Alfred preen from his approval, feeling the tickle of Jos’ gaze on his neck, making him want to preen in turn, to show off all his lovely plumage.   
  
He had a feeling that Jos knew exactly how much he was enjoying himself and he wondered if Jos was enjoying his enjoyment.   
  
“Oh, I am being terribly rude,” Francis said sweetly, turning to meet Jos’ amused stare, resisting the urge to wink at him, “Alfred, I’d like you to meet my business partner, Jos van Rijn.”   
  
“A pleasure,” Jos said smoothly, holding out a hand to Alfred, while he smirked at Francis.   
  
Alfred slid into the booth, shaking Jos’ hand before turning his attention to Francis and grinning, “Business partner, huh? What’s up with that? Last I heard, you were still making the windmill go round at La Moulin.”   
  
Francis sighed and propped his chin on his hand, carefully baiting his hook, “No, no. I’m afraid I had to part ways with La Moulin. Jos and I have a little studio of our very own now. The Blue Tulip Studios. Lovely operation!   
  
Alfred's curiosity was so wonderfully apparent as he asked, "Man, I thought you'd never leave La Moulin. What happened?"   
  
_Jos happened_ , Francis mused happily, before sighing to Alfred, "I felt it was time to strike out on my own, stretch my wings and see how high I could fly. I’m sure you understand, sometimes we all need a little freedom.”   
  
Francis felt Jos press in closer as he drank in the envy in Alfred’s voice, “Yeah, that must be awesome....”   
  
“But enough about an old man like me,” Francis continued, carefully shifting the focus back to Alfred, threading the needle of his slow seduction, “Tell me what my favorite American boy has been up to! You must be so happy with all your success.”   
  
Francis swore he could see Alfred’s chest puff, amused by his blustery bravado when he took off full steam ahead, “You know me, Francis, I’m just out there breaking and re-making the rules, saving the world from boring porn with my own, imitations-not-welcome, brand of greatness!”   
  
Francis nodded, he did indeed know all about Alfred’s reputation for doing as he damned well pleased in his films, so cocksure and unrestrained. He couldn’t wait to get his hands on all that energy. Arthur was a fool for thinking he could contain Alfred’s manifest destiny with something as ridiculous as a contract.   
  
Alfred was still speaking, the sudden hint of shyness in his tone bringing Francis back to attention, “C’mon, you’ve seen my stuff, right? It’s good, don’t you think? I totally took all that advice you gave me...”   
  
Francis patted his hand approvingly, “And you made it all your own! Of course, I’ve seen you, my darling boy! I couldn’t be more proud. I absolutely love your style. Jos and I are both fans!”   
  
Francis felt Jos shift against him, glancing out of the corner of his eye to see Jos give a curt nod that only increased the wattage of Alfred’s answering smile.   
  
“Hell yeah, that’s awesome!” Alfred said, eating up Francis’ approbation.   
  
“I can’t imagine who wouldn’t be thrilled with the work you’ve been producing,” Francis said effortlessly, feigning concern as storm clouds rolled into Alfred’s prairie blues.   
  
“Seriously!” Alfred fumed, slamming a hand down on the table, “This is why freaking Arthur and his bullshit hemming and hawing over this rule and that fee and this regulation and that obligation makes me so annoyed! Its like he doesn’t trust me to know what the hell I’m doing!”   
  
Francis considered his next move carefully. While nothing would have given him more pleasure than to thoroughly deride and degrade Arthur, he sensed that underneath all of Alfred’s chafing annoyance and frustration with his British manager, was the desire for Arthur to take him seriously, because he took Arthur seriously.   
  
Francis smiled sympathetically, “I’ve known Arthur for a very long time. For all that he is an old-fashioned stick in the mud, I am certain that he just wants what he thinks is best for you.”   
  
Alfred snorted, “Yeah, what HE thinks is best. Never listens to what I think is best for me.”   
  
“How terrible,” Francis murmured, jostling Jos under the table until he gave an unintelligible grunt that could be interpreted as ready agreement.   
  
“It totally sucks, Francis,” Alfred whined, “I have all these great ideas, big ambitions, and he’s got me chained to one company, doing the same boring scene over and over again, because its what he signed me up to do like a thousand years ago.”   
  
“Oh, Alfred, my dear, how dreadful! I couldn’t imagine having to do the same scene! And a man with your talent...such a shame,” Francis sighed prettily, watching the play of Alfred’s frustrated pride, leading him around ever so slowly, “I would never waste such a precious resource. I would never limit you so unnecessarily.”   
  
Alfred groaned, “Yeah, because you totally know what I’m going through!”   
  
“So true, so true,” Francis murmured, pausing as he leaned over the table to touch his fingers to Alfred’s cheek, “And because I have always believed that you were capable of such great things.”   
  
Francis was charmed that he could still make Alfred blush, that there was still enough of the boy eager to please under the bravado and brashness. As he slid back into his seat, he was even more charmed by the heaviness of Jos’ gaze, ever watchful and considering, making him thrill to the touch of their knees under the table.   
  
“Damn,” Alfred said fervently, finally coming to the conclusion Francis had so wanted him to think he reached all on his own, “I wish I could come work for you!”   
  
“Oh, my darling, I would love that! We would have such fun,” Francis said without having to fake his happiness, before his voice turned regretful, “But why only wish for it?”   
  
Alfred glowered, “That damned contract that Arthur’s got me all tied up in. I’d smash to pieces if I could.”   
  
Francis smiled at him, “What if I told you that Jos could do just that?”   
  
Francis felt the incision of Jos’ stare, pressing in on him even as he kept his eyes firmly on Alfred’s surprised face.   
  
“You can do that?” Alfred breathed out, as though he didn’t quite believe the stone-faced, silent man next to Francis could do much of anything but sit and glare, “I dunno, man. Arthur locked that shit up pretty tight. I’ve been looking for a way out for weeks now.”   
  
Silence fell over the table as Alfred’s gaze darted from Francis, to Jos, and back to Francis.   
  
Finally, Jos shifted forward, steepling his fingers on the table, introducing Alfred to the wonder of being pinned by one of his most serious glares, “If you are serious about wanting to sign on with the Blue Tulip, I will negotiate the transfer of your contract.”   
  
“Holy shit, you’re serious,” Alfred mumbled, seemingly dazed by the possibility of having allies in his fight against current masters.   
  
‘Well,’ Francis thought slyly, ‘no need to tell him Jos will ensure he is simply switching one yoke for another, kinder and looser though it may be.”   
  
“Of course he is,” Francis promised, “There is no one better than Jos for such things as these.”   
  
“Really, now,” Alfred said with a smile, warming with every passing moment to the window of possibility Francis had led him so delicately to open.   
  
Francis titled his head, smirking at the cool assurance in Jos’ eyes, “Really. He managed to convince me, after all.”   
  
“No great feat,” Jos said with a roll of his eyes, making Alfred laugh riotously while Francis pouted and kicked him under the table, tangling their feet together after delivering his blow.   
  
“Yes, I suppose I always have been rather easy,” Francis said cheerily waiting for Alfred to stop enjoying his mockery so thoroughly before pushing forward, “So, Alfred, shall Jos and I join you in the battle against your overlords? Shall you shake off your shackles and celebrate your independence in the decadence of Amsterdam? What do you say?”   
  
“I say hell yes!” Alfred crowed, folding his arms over his chest, smiling grandly, “I say its time to unleash Alfred Jones on the world.”   
  
“Fantastic,” Francis purred, “I am so delighted.”   
  
“Welcome to the Blue Tulip,” Jos said simply, reaching across the table to shake Alfred’s hand once more. Francis shivered in delight as Jos dragged his foot up Francis’ ankle. He did so hope Jos had enjoyed the show.   
  
“Guys, we totally have to go celebrate!” Alfred said excitedly, flinging his arms out wide, “I feel like I could take on the whole damned city today! Who’s with me?”   
  
The whole table vibrated with the force of Alfred’s enthusiasm and Francis wondered how he could gracefully decline the opportunity to be hitched to Alfred’s wagon of energy for the day. He wanted to take Jos back to the hotel and show him all the myriad other ways he could use his tongue to make a man do his bidding.   
  
“I’m afraid I have another appointment,” Jos declined politely, making Francis stare at him curiously, lips curling with amusement as he looked at Francis, “But I am sure my colleague would be happy to help you celebrate however you like.”   
  
“Yeah, c’mon, Francis, you like have to come! I know all the awesome spots. I’ll be the best damned tour guide you’ve ever had.”   
  
Francis glared at Jos, before answering weakly, “My hero. How could I turn down such a gallant offer?”   
  
“Awesome! I’m gonna go get us some burgers to go and then we’re gonna rock the best city in the world! Jos, man, thanks for tackling that whole contract thing for me. I’ll definitely owe you one. Francis, thanks for always being such a pal! We’re gonna have so much fun together.” Alfred said, giving them both a thumbs-up and wink, shoving out from the booth, bounding away towards the counter.   
  
“Yes, I imagine we will, my sweet,” Francis murmured under his breath, already envisioning all the many things he wanted to teach his newest flower, imagining how he would sow his ideas into Alfred’s fertile soil and reap all the wonderful things that were certain to grow.   
  
“I’ll leave you to it then,” Jos said, offering Francis no further explanation as to this other meeting he had that was so important he was going to abandon him here and now when Francis was riding high on pleasure and power.   
  
Francis stilled as Jos bent down, brushing his lips against his ear, breath hot and dry over his neck as he said, “Magnificent.”   
  
There was a single, solitary, whisper of a kiss to the throat and then Jos was walking away, strolling through the door, leaving Francis half-hard and wholly entranced.

 

~~~~

 

 

 

 

 

Several hours later the only thing that remained hard was Francis’ resentment at having been abandoned to the inexhaustible whims of an excited Alfred. His body ached in a way that it hadn’t since his final orgy shoot and he was fairly certain that there was gum stuck to the bottom of his lovely Pradas. To add insult to injury, Francis also had a sneaking suspicion that the early fall humidity had not been kind to his hair and that the tingling at the back of his neck implied that he been sunburned. Only thirty-six hours in the States and Alfred had already managed to turn him into a redneck.   
  
And so, when he walked back into the blessed air conditioned lobby of the hotel in desperate need of multiple drinks and a long soak in the tub, Francis was less than amused when he spotted a set of very familiar legs stretched out in the low lighting of the bar. Sliding a hand through his deplorably tangled hair, Francis marched over to Jos’ side, dropping the bag of “I Heart NYC” souvenirs Alfred had insisted he purchase into his lap.   
  
“I spend my day being run ragged across New York, considering whether or not to forgive you for abandoning me, questioning whether or not I can be angry if I’m being thrown to the lions for a meeting, only to find you here, kicking up your heels and drinking Scotch!” Francis scolded, blowing a piece of errant hair out of his face.   
  
Jos just stared at him and Francis childishly wanted to kick him until he lost that irritatingly attractive look he got whenever he thought Francis doing something particularly worthy of mockery.   
  
Francis stared at him haughtily hoping that Jos couldn’t see the pinkness of his neck, sniffing, “You call this a meeting?”   
  
The bastard had the gall to turn away from him, to give his attention to the person Francis had just realized was watching this exchange with curious detachment. It seemed Jos had company. Company in the form of a handsome man with dark eyes and a placid stare.   
  
Jos smirked softly at this stranger, pointing a finger over his shoulder at Francis, “This from a man who considers nightclubs his office. Kiku, this is my business associate, Francis Bonnefoy. Francis, this is Kiku Honda.”   
  
Francis huffed and clandestinely tried to smooth out the wrinkles in shirt, all too aware of the pristine whiteness of the shirt Jos’ companion was wearing, reigning in all his confused irritation to smile politely and hold out his hand in greeting, “A pleasure, I’m certain, Mr. Honda.”   
  
“Likewise, I’ve heard much of you,” the man answered softly, eyes tracking over Francis’ face before they returned to Jos, asking some silent question that Francis could not quite understand.   
  
“All terrible, I’m sure,” Francis answered smoothly to cover up his disbelief that Jos had discussed the exact nature of their partnership with anyone, not missing the tiny flicker of amusement in Honda’s face as he responded to whatever look Jos had just give him, pushing forward, “And how did you come to have the misfortune of knowing Jos?”   
Kiku’s brow wrinkled, his answer curious in its measured consideration, “We attended business school in Japan together for a time.”   
  
Surprised, Francis glanced at Jos, “I had no idea you went to school in Japan.”   
  
Jos shot him a look that smacked of “there is much you don’t know about me.” Francis tried to smile through his confusion, intrigued and disconcerted all at once, as though he had stumbled into a corner he never expected to exist in Jos’ tidy, narrow little world.   
  
He was even more surprised when Jos smirked, eyes softening,before turning back to his former schoolmate, voice relaxed and easy as he teased, “How quickly he forgets I had a life before saddling myself with his expensive manner of doing business.”   
  
Kiku’s expression changed very little, still all polished reservation, but Francis couldn’t help but see a hint of fondness in the way he shook his head at Jos, and the familiarity of it all burned under his skin.   
  
“Kiku does financial analysis for one of the major Japanese banks. He’s in town this month and I couldn’t forgo the chance to review our proposal for tomorrow’s meeting,” Jos explained, further unsettling Francis as he continued, “His analysis is invaluable.”   
  
Kiku flushed a little, demurring modestly, though Francis knew this was not the first time he had heard such words from his reticent, frigid, partner. Francis supposed that he should not have found it so startling to realize that there were other people in this world Jos had taken stock of and not found lacking.   
  
“High praise, indeed,” Francis said murmured lowly when Jos peered at him, clearing his throat to smile kindly at Kiku, “I’m very glad for your input. This project is very important to us.”   
  
Kiku nodded at him before shying away from the questions in Francis’ veiled stare, leaving Francis to watch as he was relegated to bystander, losing to the appeal of data.   
  
Francis balanced on the edge of Jos’ chair, noticing the spread of documents and spreadsheets on the table, covered in two sets of neat, precise handwriting. Though he felt a strange twinge at the thought of their future plans, their secret intrigues being so freely shown once again, Francis counted his blessings that at least this time it wasn’t Arthur inspecting the state of their private garden.   
  
Francis watched with interest and a slowly growing tendril of envy as Jos leaned forward, pushing a page towards this Honda fellow. He was not surprised to see that familiar glint of challenge and anticipation in Jos’ eyes. What did surprise him was the ease with which the two conversed, heads bent together over some tangle of numbers and figures, murmuring in short, half-sentences, intonation smooth and polished as stone, though the wicked curve of Jos’ upturned lips and the warmth in Honda’s eyes gave away their sincere enjoyment.   
  
A conversation of murmurs and glances, an separate world contained in their quiet reservation.   
  
It was new and startling, this Jos who could be so fluid and free without a coaxing touch, nor a searing kiss. Here, Francis knew, was something he could not have guessed at, could not have foreseen in all their razor-wire games.   
  
It was marvelous and he wanted to have that warmth between his greedy fingers, sliding over his skin and under his tongue.   
  
Suddenly too worn to disguise his intrigue well enough to fool his all too clever Dutchman, Francis wanted to be away, to be away from the all too beguiling and lovely look in Jos’ eyes, so that he could think. He could not watch without wanting to touch it for himself, to steal that attention back so he could pick at the lock until Jos opened up for him, showing him all the secrets he seemed to give away so freely to one old friend.   
  
The discovery of a whole new dimension to his favorite puzzle was too much to consider under Jos’ calculating gaze and so he excused himself, backing away from this intimacy that made him feel like an outsider, wondering what he would have to do if he wanted to find the way to make Jos look at him like that....   
  
It was a heady thought, considering what he would likely to need to give, how many of his cards he would need to reveal to Jos’ exacting eyes, to change the tempo of their dance to something slower and infinitely more dangerous.   
  
And though he questioned the merits of pushing for such unfettered access, for teasing and toying with all Jos’ many locks and chains until they came undone, for a second night, Francis fell asleep with a queer sense of disappointment of being once again alone in the emptiness of the hotel bed.   
  
~~~~   
  
A night of deep sleep and the pleasure of watching Jos put on his suit vastly improved Francis’ outlook on the life the following morning. Certainly, he was all too aware of the attractive figure he cut in his black Armani, with blue shirt and white tie, but he was far more delighted to be granted the privilege of seeing Jos assume all the trappings of their success.   
  
He lounged on the bed, flipping idly through messages on his phone, trying not to make Jos too aware that he was being admired, that Francis was cataloging the order with which he put on each lovely item of clothing, enjoying the quiet eroticism of a morning that promised so much.   
  
He watched long legs disappear under slate gray, arms now hidden under crisp, clean white. A black belt, a silver watch, and small cuff links helped make the man staring at himself in the mirror, silent and methodical, each piece falling just where it should.   
  
Francis closed his eyes and envisioned Jos standing in the middle of this very room, letting Francis slowly, softly remove each stitch of clothing he had just put on, stripping him back down to the self and self alone, letting Francis dress him again with touch and taste.   
  
“Francis.”   
  
Francis startled out his fantasy, blinking lazily at the pretty sight of Jos standing at the foot of the bed, a little moue of frustration, holding his tie between his fingers.   
  
“Yes, dearest?” Francis asked, roused by the strange touch of pink on Jos’ cheeks and the twitch in his jaw.   
  
Jos dropped the tie to the bed, a spool of blue on sheets of white, grumbling, “Knot this for me.”   
  
Francis’ eyebrows flew up, even as he immediately acquiesced, crawling forward to take the tie between his hands, eying Jos with delighted amusement.   
  
He sat up on his knees, winding the tie through Jos’ stiff, starched collar, asking lightly, “How is it my favorite titan of adult industry doesn’t know how to knot his own tie?”   
  
Gods, the tiny rush of heat up Jos’ neck, so close to his fingers as he straightened the fabric was so charming, but Francis felt his heart tremble with warmth when Jos snapped, “My sister has always liked to do it for me.”   
  
He pushed his face into the curve of Jos’ shoulder, breathing in the scent of his skin, unmarred for once by smoke, imagining a closet in Jos’ home, filled with ties that his sister had lovingly knotted for him, Jos allowing himself this weakness because it made her happy. And now Francis was being allowed to hold this secret between his hands, to slide it around Jos’ collar with his own affectionate fingers. He sighed from the sudden rush of desire he felt as he looked into this tiny window Jos had so sweetly opened for him.   
  
His hands worked swiftly, finishing the over-under movements as he pressed his happy smile into Jos’ throat.   
  
“You’re enjoying yourself,” Jos murmured quietly, staring intensely through hooded eyes as though he wanted to peel away the layers of Francis’ quiet touch.   
  
Francis pulled back, settling on his heels to adjust the tie, to make sure that his knight of shining numbers looked as perfect as he was to Francis in this moment.   
  
“Yes,” Francis answered softly, peering up under his eyelashes to catch that wonderful gaze of surprise, holding himself entirely still when Jos took his face between his hands and kissed him gently.   
  
The kiss lingered, somehow urgent and searching for all its slow, lazy, warmth, making Francis feel thick with desire. It was a kiss like drinking Sauternes, complicated sweetness that promised a headache and a burning heart if consumed too quickly, if drunk too greedily.   
  
He shifted forward, ready to chase this unexpected sweetness, only to have the rough hands framing his face fall away as an alarm beeped, reality and obligation breaking forcing their way in. Francis sighed and let his hands fall from the perfect knot he’d made as Jos pulled away, pulled back into himself, rearming himself with all the trappings he would need to conduct their business.   
  
‘Later,’ Francis silently promised them both, letting the arousal curl in his chest, licking the taste of Jos from his lips as they forged their way forward together to make a business of pleasure.   
  
~~~   
  
The arousal thrummed in time with the pounding of his feet on the pavement as they flowed up one of New York’s busy avenues, following two steps behind Jos’ commanding strides, ready this time to be his secondary, to sit beside him and have the thrill of watching him tear down another empire to build their own. Francis could see the readiness in Jos’ shoulders, broad and set, there was no softness here, only the confidence of a man armed with facts and figures, and his own inherent sense of superiority.   
  
It was so marvelous to see again all that which had charmed him so thoroughly the first time Jos had called him into his office, to watch him deploy all those same tactics and know that when this meeting finished he would be the only one to get to touch the hands that sealed the deal and the lips that did such fine convincing.   
  
The low burn desire threatened to turn into a conflagration of want as he sat besides those long legs, smiling politely into the hostile gazes of the men holding Alfred’s free agency hostage and let Jos take charge of this second wave of their American campaign, calmly and coolly dismantling every argument tossed into the field of engagement.   
  
He had to bite the inside of his mouth to keep from smirking smugly as Jos showed them he was no small-time studio owner that could be so readily dismissed, cutting a swath through endless streams of protestations and outrageous demands with such meticulous facts and figures delivered with a ruthlessness that made Francis want to purr. He did so like a man who knew what he was about, who took no prisoners and had no qualms about sizing someone up to tear them down.   
  
Where Francis was the velvet touch, a negotiator of human desire, Jos was his equal and opposite, manipulating rules and regulations, addenda and agenda to bring the world to his heels.   
  
Inch by inch, Jos pushed for what they wanted, giving away nothing with his iced professionalism, though Francis could see the wolf’s grin growing larger, hungrier, each time their opponents danced to Jos’ tune, giving way to his confidence, his assurance, his impenetrable preparation. Francis had never found numbers so sexy in his life, feeling his mind come alive as he tripped merrily down the gentle path of Jos’ negotiation, playing his part as needed, wanting to laugh with delight when Jos finally held out a pen and a contract, eyes gleaming with victory as Alfred was signed over to them for a pittance of what he was worth.   
  
Jos was marvelous, so brilliantly alive for all that he was as composed as the moment they walked into the conference room, only showing his secret delight to Francis, a fleeting arch of that cruel eyebrow stoking the flames of Francis’ desire as he smiled back, low and hot, so ready to shower him with all his approval and adoration.   
  
Alone in the elevator, Francis painted a picture in his memory of a Jos resplendent, leaning against the mirrored wall with his head tipped back, with just a hint of a smile teasing the corners of his eyes and the set of his jaw.   
  
“Magnificent,” he breathed into Jos’ ear, brushing his lips against the sharpness of his cheek bone, feeling every intention but one fade into unimportance at glitter of reciprocated want in Jos’ gaze.   
  
As they emerged triumphant into the brightness of a New York afternoon, Francis knew there were a thousand things they should do; there were contracts to be notarized and filed, Alfred should be found and informed of the official changing of his guard, there were two-martini lunches and celebratory steaks that should be consumed, but there was only item outstanding on his to do list.   
  
Squinting into the sunlight, Francis looked up at Jos, watched him looking up at the piercing New York skyline and counted himself so lucky to have found a man who was such a wonderful challenge, who had reminded him what it was to want more.   
  
“Come back to the hotel with me,” Francis asked, touching his fingers to the knot at Jos’ throat, pleased by the way he swallowed and shifted closer, wondering at the question that seemed to be lurking in his gaze. He hesitated, faltering on the edge, as Jos just looked at him, something deeper lurking under victory and desire, something Francis wasn’t sure he understood.   
  
“I thought you would prefer to go dance on Arthur’s professional grave,” Jos rasped sardonically.   
  
Francis pushed his fingers under the collar of Jos’ lovely suit, smiling into those fathomless eyes.   
  
“My darling, you have my complete and undivided attention.”

 

In the hush of the hotel room, Francis touched his lips to Jos’ cheek and closed his eyes, walking him backwards to stand in the middle of the floor, bathed in the late afternoon light of a New York fall, crisp and beautiful, waiting and watching. And when Francis looped his fingers through the tie he’d knotted to find his hand swiftly covered by a larger palm, held in place on his chest, he smiled into the low urgency of Jos’ kiss as they stood pressed together, taking all the time in the world to savor the taste of shared success.   
  
He let himself be brought slowly to arousal, let his simmering desire crest to breaking with each sweeping brush of Jos’ hand down his back and the soft slide of his tongue in Jos’ mouth, which parted so prettily and readily for him. Francis felt drunk, blood slowed and thickened, seduced by the private quietness of a room unto their own, reveling in the rare opportunity to indulge in the fullness of Jos’ allure.   
  
He recalled that morning’s grand fantasy as he pushed the gray jacket from Jos’ determined shoulders, letting it pool on the floor as he brought each hand to his lips to kiss fingers and roughened palms, watching Jos watch him as flicked his tongue over each cufflink, breathing hotly across the skin of his wrist.   
  
Cufflinks fell to the floor, dropping gently onto the abandoned jacket, soon to be covered by a tie knotted with affection and the warmth of Jos’ shirt as Francis pulled it from his skin, trailing his nails over the dips and planes of his chest, tracing the sharp ridge of Jos’ collarbone with teeth and tongue, tasting sweat and cologne and the beauty of a man.   
  
Jos stayed entirely silent and entirely still, as though he truly were a masterpiece for Francis to tear down and make anew. Only his eyes followed every touch Francis bestowed, scrutinizing the slow progress of his seduction, his appreciation, his admiration. With unfailing delicacy, Francis slid free the button of his pants and ran his thumb down the zipper, feeling the hardness below, sinking to his knees as he dragged the pants from his hips, following the progress of fabric with fleeting touches of his lips.   
  
There was no part of Jos that Francis did not want bared to his sight, to his taste, to his touch. It had been so long, too long, since he had felt such captivation, such an unrelenting desire to be close, to be given such permissions with an other's body. He pulled each shoe and each sock from Jos’ feet, tossing them aside to bite the bones of his ankle and press his thumbs in the vulnerable, hidden hollow of his knees.   
  
With slow surety, he slid soft fingers under Jos’ underwear, dragging them off so carefully, wanting to ensure that he rewarded each lovely piece of skin with a kiss as he slid them further and further down, until they, too, had fallen in the face of his amorous onslaught, leaving Jos entirely bare before him, beautiful and exposed in the sunlight.   
  
When a hand cupped his face, he met those eyes he so adored and smiled into the palm that held him, feeling his heart swell to be gifted with that gaze of surprise for a second time that day as he let himself be pulled to his feet to meet Jos’ searching, commanding embrace.   
  
Startled by the intensity of the moment, the depth of feeling making him perilously close to losing control, Francis kissed him, feeling the heat of Jos' chest through the clothes he still wore, teasing out his lust, sucking on the marvel that was his stern lower lip until he felt fingers pulling at the tie in his hair, loosening all the bands of propriety until the strands curled around his cheeks.   
  
And for the first time in more years that he cared to remember, Francis lost a bedroom game, when Jos, in all his wonderful, naked glory, sank to his knees before him and pressed his hot, wanting mouth against the swell of Francis’ pants.   
  
“Oh, my darling,” Francis murmured as he looked down at the fingers making swift work of his buttons and zips, admiring the long, pale, line of Jos’ back, wishing he had taken the time to touch his lips to the entire curve of his spine, wondering if one day Jos would let him taste everywhere.   
  
He felt his breath catch at the first slide of Jos’ tongue over his cock, carding his hands through Jos’ unruly hair, watching Jos’ eyes flutter closed for a long moment while he mouthed Francis, making him hard and slick with lust. He enjoyed the powerful splay of Jos’ fingers across his hips as his pants slid down his thighs, gasping indelicately when he found himself so deep within that wonderful, caustic mouth. He discovered Jos watching him, always watching him, something hot and perilous in his stare as he accepted the challenge he found there, rocking slowly into the parting of Jos’ lips, taking and being taken.   
  
Feeling at once desperate with desire, he wanted to shed his own clothing and press down naked and hot over Jos until they were sticky with lust and shallow breathing. He urged Jos up from his knees, taking him into his arms and kissing the taste of himself from his lips, murmuring, “More, more, more.”   
  
He laughed into Jos’ shoulder at the hot whisper of, “Demanding,” in his ear. Swiftly, still smiling, he shoved Jos onto the bed, gratified to find his suspicion that Jos, naked and sprawled on a bed was even more alluring than Jos against an office wall or melding into his couch proven so delicious true. Forgoing grace, giving up all pretense to the desire in his eyes and under his skin Francis pulled and tugged the remaining clothes from his body until he was blessedly, finally free to crawl to the bed and into Jos’ greedy, grasping hands, meeting his kiss as their bodies tangled together.   
  
Face to face, he looked down at Jos, still so remarkably composed and contained but for the flush on his chest and the cock rocking slowly into the curve of his ass, trailing a finger over the scar above his eye, spreading his legs to welcome the deliberate seeking of Jos’ touch.   
  
Jos stilled the wonderful kissing of his chest when Francis pressed his lips to the scar, falling back against the pillows to peer up at Francis, speaking with the whisper of a smile, “Football match when I was twelve.”   
  
In the ensuing seconds in which Jos tumbled him over to rest on his back, Francis felt as though he were standing on the edge of an unexpected cliff, heart racing with wonder and worry as he met nothing but an expanse of blue, blue skies. He parted his legs and his lips to Jos’ demands, letting his mind slip away on sea of desire, arching into the slick push of Jos’ fingers, opening him and setting him ablaze as they kissed and slid together, entangled on sheets of white.   
  
With wanton greed, Francis sighed and shuddered as Jos took him, kissing him messily all the while, lacing their hands together above his head, head to toe intertwined. It had been so long since he had been so close, so tied up in someone else that Francis surprised himself with the quiet desperation of his moans, the neediness of his body as it arched into every push and pull of Jos’ hips moving into him.   
  
He could hear only the sounds of their skin sliding over the sheets, the echo of Jos’ sharp, rasping breath in his ear, and the sweet, ridiculous words that were spilling from his own lips in hushed French, pouring out with his desire as Jos spoke silently to him with the softness of his touch and the heat in his gaze.   
  
And when Jos smothered those words with a kiss, pushing into him with sudden urgency, tightening the hold on his hands to the threshold of pain, Francis loosed his tenuous control, giving way to the fluttering in his heart and the rushing warmth of his thoughts, coming over their stomachs, chasing Jos’ climax as he closed his eyes and let go.   
  
In the whispers of the aftermath, Francis pushed Jos to his side, tangling their legs together and tucking his face into the slick warmth of his shoulder, hiding his quelling, shaking feelings from Jos’ gaze, breathing in the scent of his own cologne mixing with Jos’, absently noting in the creeping lethargy of pleasure that in this too, they were well matched.   
  
Later, when the sleepy haze of indulgence had worn off, Francis woke to the sound of traffic and sirens, sated and lazily happy, hands searching idly for the warmth of another body. When he encountered nothing but cooling sheets, he opened his eyes to a now darkened room to find Jos, standing in front of an open window, illuminated by the night lights of the city.   
  
Purring as he stretched out all the wonderful kinks and bends that sex had wrought, Francis padded naked from the bed to lean into the ready welcome of Jos’ side, scolding playfully, “This is a non-smoking room, you naughty thing.”   
  
Jos smirked down at him, blowing smoke slowly out the cracked window, “It was necessary.”   
  
Francis flushed and smiled wickedly in returning, thinking of the mussed bed he had just crawled from, plucking the illicit cigarette from Jos’ fingers and taking a drag.   
  
He liked the way Jos watched him exhale, winking as he said, “New York has been very good to us.”   
  
Jos turned his eyes to the cityscape below, still bustling with activity, agreeing quietly, “Very productive.”   
  
“We should stay longer,” Francis cajoled, winding his arm around Jos’ waist, thinking at once of carriage rides in the park and other actors they could pursue, daydreaming about a whole cadre of strapping young American boys.   
  
They could be his States!   
  
“No,” Jos answered shortly, “We need to go home.”   
  
Francis considered pouting, but settled instead for a long suffering sigh that would not betray the lingering tendrils of joy he felt wrapped around his heart.   
  
Jos looked at him then in the darkness, stripping him of artifice, drawing forth his own gaze of surprise when he said, “But we can come back.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	5. Vive Le Vent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas Ensemble of Chaos

“You want to do what?” Jos asked, voice dangerously flat, making Francis’ smile grow even wider as he handed over a cup of bribery in the form of Amsterdam’s best coffee.   
  
“I want to host all of our precious Tulips at my home for a true Christmas Eve dinner, ” Francis repeated, enunciating more carefully, rolling the r’s so obscenely that it reminded him of the false accent he’d once used to lull Jos into complacency.   
  
Jos stared at him as though he was a snake in the grass, ready to strike and permanently maim him with his suggestions of togetherness and cheer.   
  
“Why?” Jos asked slowly, drinking deeply from his coffee while continuing to delight Francis with his wary grumpiness.   
  
“What office doesn’t have a holiday party, my darling Scrooge?” Francis happily teased, “Besides, most of our hard workers just moved to  _your_  fair city, slaving away for all these months, and now need somewhere to go for this most joyous time of year. Is it not our duty to show our gratitude by providing a night of merriment?”   
  
Jos frowned at him adorably, compelling Francis to press his thumb into the little crease of consternation wrinkling his forehead. Jos, predictably, just endured it, as stone-faced and cold as ever, catching Francis by the wrist and sitting him down on the edge of the desk.   
  
“I’ll take the real reason now,” He commanded dryly, supremely unmoved by the playfulness of Francis’ pout at being so wonderfully manhandled.   
  
Francis rolled his eyes heavenwards, heaving a great theatrical sigh, having even more fun than he had directing Sweden and Poland’s very first shared scene that morning.   
  
(Oh, but the stoic Scandinavian had such substantial talent. He would have to consider offering Jens a bonus for bringing him such a lovely and unexpected gift.)   
  
Francis gave Jos his best cloak and dagger intonation, leaning forward to murmur conspiratorially, “My darling, by inviting all our lonely little flowers to a party, generously thrown by their kind bosses, and showering them with attention and all the comforts of home, we will not only make them more pliable, more trusting, more indebted to us.... but we will bind them to us through the nigh indestructible bonds of loyalty and gratitude. It is so much more difficult to go against directions if you perceive the person giving the orders as family instead of simply an employer. And what is Le Reveillon about but a celebration of family?”   
  
He knew his own eyes were bright with mirth, barely able to contain the laughter that wanted to flow over the yarn he was spinning, ridiculous for all that it was also true. And in return for this little ruse, the daily playing of their machinations, Jos rewarded him with faint amusement in the softening of his frown and the slow creep of his eyebrows up his forehead with every word that passed from his lips to Jos’ ready ears.   
  
“Of course,” Jos drawled out, eying him with knowing interest, “And because....”   
  
Truly, Jos never failed to make his day brighter with his shadowed moods and sharp mind. Francis was starting to think it was perhaps not so bad a situation to have a dance partner who knew the steps before he’d even had a chance to change the song.   
  
Laughing, Francis winked at him, “And because I want to eat, drink, and be merry in the company of attractive, debauched young men. And I want to dazzle a certain Dutchman with the wonders of a traditional French dinner, cooked by a very non-traditional Frenchman. Prove to him the worthiness of France.”   
  
This time it was Jos’ turn to scoff and roll his eyes, though Francis thought he spied in the curve of his smirk those same rare flickers of warmth and possessive satisfaction that had been catching him off-guard since a quiet evening in a dark hotel in New York. He had yet to stitch together all the tiny pieces of Jos’ mystery that he’d pried lose and occasionally been gifted freely into a coherent picture.   
  
For all that Francis could sit with ease on the corner of a desk and tempt his frigid co-conspirator with coffee and flirtation, for all that he wanted to bring the man into his home and share the delights of the season, he could not always predict that which would make Jos burn with sudden, surprising intensity, could not always even understand the deeply stirring moments when his own skin flushed with a yearning he’d thought was long gone from his life.   
  
He chuckled, helping himself to one of Jos’ ever-present smokes, ruing that he had picked up such a terrible habit again after so many years, “Besides, I could hardly say no to dear Feliciano when he came to me in such a pathetic state, so sad to be separated from Ludwig, who could find no justifiable excuse not to go back home to Berlin to be with Gilbert. Really, Gilbert can be such a baby about these things! And poor Feli couldn’t stand the idea of abandoning his...charming...brother on such a holy holiday to follow Ludwig to Germany.”   
  
Francis suspected something was awry as Jos started to smirk at him more fully, looking ever so much like a shark who had just scented very amusing prey as Francis continued relating Feliciano’s tale of woe.   
  
“And just as he started crying, breaking what remains of my bitter heart, I thought why not keep the Studio together for our first Christmas in business? Why not fill my house with friends old and new, when I, too, am so desperately alone in the cold of an Amsterdam winter?” Francis finished with a flourish, feeling the warmth of his generous inspiration and Jos’ obvious entertainment flow through him like mulled wine.   
  
Jos shook his head, still smirking, lighting his own cigarette as he softly mocked, “If you’re so desperate for company that you’ll allow yourself to be beguiled by the idiot Italian, I think I have no choice but to say yes.”   
  
Francis choked on his inhale, eyes watering with pain and self-deprecating laughter as he realized that what Jos had said was true. He had fallen victim to the oldest trick in Feliciano’s book; the combination of those damned pleading eyes and such seemingly innocent needy clinging.   
  
When he had stopped laughing and coughing, he met Jos’ bemused stare, smiling prettily at him, “Goodness, you’re right. That terrible little sneak, using such tactics against me!”   
  
Jos snorted, “Losing your touch?”   
  
Francis blew him a kiss, flirting lewdly, “Behave yourself at the party and maybe I’ll let you help me rediscover it.”   
  
“Right,” Jos said boredly, “Definitely lost it.”   
  
Francis ignored the flat sarcasm, far more interested in the slight tightening of Jos’ lovely fingers around his pencil as Francis slid from the desk and make his way for the door.   
  
“But I’m glad to hear you’ll be able to make it darling,” He purred, “By the way, your beautiful sister has promised to bring your Oma’s favorite appeltaarte.”   
  
And as he left, shoulders shaking with laughter, Francis swore he heard the sound of a pencil snapping as he was addressed by some very unflattering terms of Dutch endearment.   
  
Oh, but this was going to be a magnificent disaster of a soiree.   
  
~~~~~   
  
Christmas Eve found Francis happily ensconced in his kitchen, barefoot and busy as he hummed along to carols and filled his flat with the smells of home, conjuring up warm memories of his mother and fathers’ cooking in the Parisian apartment of his childhood. The table was set for twelve, no mean feat in the narrow space of his new home, but then Francis had always prided himself on the uncanny ability to fit anything into a tight space. Every available centimeter of surface space in the kitchen was covered in bowls, platters, and abandoned cutlery, the oven working overtime to accommodate the large goose that was slowly roasting away, drizzled in a jus of honey and brandy, and in the chill of the fridge sat Francis’ masterpiece, a lovingly handmade Buche de Noel.   
  
And though his hair was curling every which way in the heat of the kitchen and his apron was flecked with sauce and shavings of peel, there were oysters and bottles of champagne on ice and Francis was filled with wonderful sense of anticipation for all that he knew that there was a high likelihood of his lovely dinner devolving into a shouting match.   
  
He had just helped himself to another glass of wine, (mother had always told him one cup for the dish, one cup for the cook), when the doorbell buzzed unexpectedly. That it was Jos standing on the threshold with flowers and a bottle in hand was even more unexpected.   
  
Francis blinked at him for a long moment, staring at his surly number-cruncher in his Sunday best as he stood on his doorstep, scowling expectantly.   
  
“While I appreciate your love of punctuality, my darling, I think arriving two hours early is a little excessive,” Francis teased through his surprise, enjoying the way Jos’ scowl deepened, accepting the host gifts that were dumped unceremoniously into his arms.   
  
“I’m here to assist,” Jos groused, “Since you insisted on telling the staff that 'Big Brother and the Big Bad Wolf wanted to celebrate with them', I feel obligated to contribute to this idiocy.”   
  
Francis laughed happily, touched that Jos would want to do share in this with him, “Well, then, together into the breach we go!”   
  
He moved to let Jos stride into his apartment, all tightly wound purposefulness wrapped in fine clothes and a long winter coat. Francis started to point towards the coat rack, as it appeared that Jos intended to make himself quite at home, only to be pinned under Jos’ sudden scrutiny, at once deeply aware of his disheveled appearance, shocked to find that he wanted to blush and smooth a hand over his hair like a teenager on a first date.   
  
“What are you wearing?” Jos said with warm derision, eyes glinting with mockery as he looked Francis up and down.   
  
Peering below at his “Statue of David” apron, swathed in the colors of Italy and printed with the world’s most recognizable marble torso and groin, Francis smirked, twirling in place, “What this old thing? Don’t you like it?”   
  
Jos huffed in amusement, “You look ridiculous.”   
  
“No need to be so envious of my rock hard abs, dearest,” Francis returned, flouncing towards the kitchen, balancing flowers and wine under one arm and surreptitiously taking the opportunity to try and tamp down the worst of the frizz while Jos hung up his coat and trailed after him.   
  
“Where did you get such a thing?” Jos asked from behind him, still apparently bedeviled by the sight of Francis in something so patently frivolous.   
  
Francis shrugged and walked towards the interior of the house, calling out over his shoulder, “You know, darling, after that little incident with Arthur and your 'meeting' in New York, I am starting to believe you enjoy trying to catch me off-guard. To uncover all my dirty little secrets. But I’ll have you know that this stunning apron was a gift from dearest Antonio.”   
  
“An idiot gift from an idiot,” Jos grumbled as he stalked about the narrow floor of Francis’ kitchen, already rolling up his sleeves and eyeing the mess with a steely glare.   
  
“I do like it when you’re jealous,” Francis trilled, unfazed by the momentary shift of Jos’ glare from his dishes to him as he put the flowers on the counter and squeezed the wine into the remaining precious inches of free space in the fridge, “But even if you give me such a dirty look as that I will not relinquish my David. Years and years ago, when we were but sweet young things, new to the industry,Antonio gave this to me. We'd gone to Florence together, spending all the money we’d just earned, high off of our first successful movie, trying to woo Feliciano into following us back to Paris. And the rest, of course, is history.”   
  
Frances smiled wistfully at the memory as he shuffled around Jos in the kitchen, remembering how young and foolish they had been, carousing drunk in the streets of Florence, trying to wine and dine Feliciano out of his broken hearted disappointment from Ludwig’s sudden return to Germany, watching Antonio try and fail to coax Lovino out of his foul temper and into his bed.   
  
He thought perhaps that if Feliciano had declined to take his offer, eventually Antonio would have succeeded in slipping through Lovino’s constant barrage of insults and heated words with his easy smile and seemingly endless patience. But those aspirations had withered on the vine in the instant that Feliciano joined La Moulin and Antonio had no choice but to take one Vargas brother to bed and lose his chance at the other. Lovino's insecure pride was a fearful thing, unwavering and unyielding, terribly unlikely to forgive Antonio the sin of having touched the brother he so envied, even if only in an imitation of passion.   
  
It gave him pause in moments like these to consider what may have been had they never started walking down this path that had brought them to this chill Christmas Eve in Amsterdam. Would Antonio look back and fault Francis for that which had never been?   
  
“Useless sentimentality,” Jos snorted derisively as he continued tidying the preparatory mess Francis’ masterpiece dinner, committing himself so fully to the task Francis began to wonder if he somehow took offense to the sight of a well used kitchen.   
  
Francis resisted the temptation to remind Jos of the reason why he couldn’t tie his own ties, the flavor of such an intimate secret still too rich and fulfilling to be spoken aloud, instead letting the room go quiet but for the sounds of the chanteuse on the radio and the bustle of domesticity.   
  
It was nice, Francis thought contentedly, shaking off the doldrums of bittersweet memories. It was so startlingly lovely to have someone stoically fuss alongside him in the kitchen, shadowing his stpes and snatching up every used mixing bowl and wooden spoon to be washed, dried, and put away. There was something wonderfully new and thrilling about this ease, this strange thread of pleasure and pride that stretched between them as the embarked on yet another adventure together, this gentleness that Francis had not expected to find in their pointed glances and exacting caresses.   
  
And as the stillness of the afternoon wore into evening, the counters began to reappear, spotless and pristine, while pots bubbled and the goose glistened.   
  
When the last dish had been prepared Francis looked up, uncaring of the hair he could feel curling around his ears and flying away from his forehead and the smears of flour and spice on his arms and hands, to smile sweetly at Jos, who smirked in return as he tossed the dishrag against the sink and surveyed the kitchen and the resident chef with silent approval.   
  
Francis’ smile diminished when Jos reached for his phone, holding it up as though he intended to commit the grievous crime of taking a picture of Francis, sweaty and unshaven, wearing an apron with a marble cock.   
  
“What are you doing?” Francis asked threateningly, taking careful steps towards Jos, whose smirk grew more dangerous by the second.   
  
“I need collateral to coerce Arthur into answering my emails and calls,” Jos answered, shamelessly blunt. Francis frowned at the mention of Arthur's horrid name until he took base pleasure in remembering exactly why it was that Arthur was giving Jos the cold shoulder.   
  
“Been tainted by association?” Francis purred, shifting ever closer, narrowing his eyes as he watched the hover of Jos’ fingers over the keypad.   
  
Jos nodded and leaned against the counter, seemingly unimpressed by Francis’ approach, face attractively flushed from the warmth of the room and the thrill of the chase.   
  
Francis snatched his wrist, leaning up to breathe hotly into his ear, “If you do such an unthinkable thing as share my current glory with Eyebrows, I’ll sit you between Feliks and Antonio for dinner.”   
  
Jos shuddered and snarled playfully at him as Francis sidled in near, abrading the curve of his throat with the coarseness of his unshaven cheek, murmuring, “And I’ll make sure that your lovely sister has the seat of honor next to me.”   
  
Francis smiled victoriously when phone met counter and lips met lips, letting Jos kiss him roughly as he stood barefoot and unkempt in the still heat of his small kitchen, sighing his approval into Jos’ mouth and nipping at his chin before shifting away.   
  
Jos’ hands remained stubbornly on his back, toying with the strings of his apron, pulling it loose to slide his fingers under the hem of his shirt and press against the ridge of his spine. Francis leaned into the touch, disappointed that the clock would not allow him to permit Jos to debauch him over one of the pristine kitchen counters.   
  
“Mmm, my apologies, darling, but your Artistic Director needs to apply some serious artistic direction to his appearance before the troops arrive,” Francis said softly, tickled by Jos’ frown of consternation as he wiggled free of his embrace, apron hanging loosely from his neck.   
  
He smirked as he pulled it over his head, throwing the offending garment into Jos’ still reaching hands, rushing away as he called out, “Do feel free to spend as much quality time with David as you like!”   
  
~~~~   
  
“You’re being rather presumptuous this evening, dearest,” Francis shouted over the rushing of the shower once his heart had dislodged itself from its temporary refuge in his throat. His heart was still racing in the wake of Jos’ surprising and sudden appearance in his bathroom.   
  
“This from a man who comes into my office at all hours and invites my sister to Christmas dinner without asking me first,” Jos snarked coldly from the other side of the glass as Francis finished rinsing the shampoo from his hair, taking more care than necessary to run his fingers though his locks and over his neck now that he had a not unwelcome audience. He wondered if perhaps Jos wished to join him in the shower. It would be a tight squeeze, but much like a table for twelve in an apartment for one, he was certain he could make it work.   
  
“Did you need something in particular?” Francis asked, meeting Jos’ eyes through the steamed glass, liking very much what he saw; that lazy attraction mixed with intense curiosity. He pushed his hair from his eyes and traced one finger down his throat as Jos made himself quite at home, wordlessly watching Francis go through the motions of his daily routine. Francis was beginning to suspect that his sometime lover, for all that he was a unrelenting workaholic, had a bit of a kink for the domestic, for all the trappings of home and hearth.   
  
It was marvelously endearing and arousing.   
  
“No.” Jos answered thickly, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the vanity, without breaking their gaze while Francis reached blindly for the soap.   
  
‘You always did like to watch,’ Francis mused as he indulged them both, slipping the soap between his legs, remembering how intense it was to perform for someone, feeling something deep and dark shift in his desire at the sensation of having Jos see him like this and like he was only minutes ago under the kitchen lights, stripped and loose in all his private, personal corners.   
  
_‘And I have wanted to watch you in return. I want to watch you still.’_   
  
“Men used to pay a pretty price for this privilege,” Francis murmured darkly, tipping his head back to let the water sluice down his face and chest, winking at Jos, “And no matter the offer, they never could afford a live show.”   
  
He ran his fingers over his cock, coaxing it to fullness under Jos’ unwavering gaze, “They had to settle for me on their screen, an image shared with countless faceless others."   
  
Francis dragged his nails down his chest, leaving red marks under the running trails of water, "And here you have me all to yourself. And, my darling, how it thrills me to know that as you watch me, you are imaging exactly how much such an experience as this would be worth. That you are weighing and measuring my value as surely as I am daydreaming about the feel of your lips on the inside of my thigh.”   
  
Jos said nothing, though Francis did not become the star he was by being unaware of such wonderful tells as the quickening of Jos' breathing and the shifting of one hand to splay across his pants.  And as Francis watched a belt slide loose and a buttom come un done, Jos gifted him with a challenging smirk that practically begged Francis to carry on.   
  
And, oh, Francis would gladly oblige, happily accept his challenge, would give himself over to the strange intimacy of sex separated by glass and drenched in water, touching his lover only with his gaze and his voice. Here in the closeness of the bathroom, he would partake of this indulgence, keep Jos to himself for a moment more before he swung the front door open and let the rest of their life inside.   
  
He stroked his cock slowly, fingers slick with lather, sighs echoing off the shower walls, carrying over the glass to Jos, who had tugged his fine black pants down just enough to push his hand inside, touching himself in time with Francis.   
  
“Tell me, sweet, before you stole me away, did you ever watch me?” Francis cajoled lowly, splaying one hand out on the shower door, letting his other fingers fall further back, brushing against his balls, gasping obscenely just because he could, putting a bit of the old showmanship into his voice.   
  
He knew from the shifting of Jos’ eyes and the quickening of the hand disappearing under the unforgivable underwear that hid such a lovely cock from his view that the answer to his question was  _yes_ .   
  
He knew that Jos’ body remembered these recorded moans and panting sighs of pleasure, that this private show was memory come to life. Francis closed his eyes and imagined it: Jos, the consummate professional, plotting while watching his videos, thinking only of business and grand plans until captivated by Francis-the-shining-star. He would be suddenly flooded with desire, touching himself and forgetting for a moment that he wanted Francis for anything but this.   
  
“You did,” Francis taunted hotly, enjoying the return of Jos’ unapologetic stare, rewarding him with one long slow stroke up his cock, twisting his thumb over the head while he licked away the water running down his lips, “You watched me and you thought of how you would use me.”   
  
“Yes,” Jos rasped, finally shoving his pants done far enough to let Francis see the loveliness of his hard cock and for a moment he considered dropping this game and dropping to his knees and leaving wet hand-prints on Jos’ pants as he sucked him.   
  
He swallowed that fantasy, burning with lust, narrowing his eyes as he watched Jos stroke himself faster and harder, admiring the working of his throat each time Francis curved his wrist around his own cock and sighed.   
  
Francis smiled at Jos knowingly, leaning forward to touch his head to the glass of the door, ensuring that Jos was looking at nothing but him, calling out, “And you also thought of what you would do to me. All the filthy, wonderful, ways you would touch me if I were yours to command.”   
  
The sight of Jos’ blinding possessive desire was enough for Francis to laugh richly and gasp as he let his pleasure crest, coming over his hand and across the glass, struggling to keep his eyes fixed on Jos’ hot hungry stare as he dragged his fingers through the streaks on the door, bring them to his mouth and flicking his tongue out to taste.   
  
Jos let out a strangled curse that had Francis pushing out from the shower, trailing water across the meter it took him to reach his hand forward, murmuring, “Let me, let me. I promise not to leave you a mess.”   
  
Jos looked at him with strange eyes, mouth parted with heavy breath as he allowed Francis to slide his wet hand over Jos' cock, their fingers tangling together as they stroked as one. Without moving his feet, keeping the dampness of his skin from marring the perfection of Jos clothes, Francis leaned in to kiss him gently, stealing the sound of Jos’ orgasm when he shifted his hand to catch his release, feeling it hot and slick in his palm as teeth pierced his bottom lip and fingers clutched possessively at his damp waist.   
  
Francis smiled when Jos broke the kiss to slump forward, forehead resting on his shoulder, shivering as a tongue idly traced patterns through the lingering droplets of water, taking care as he erased all evidence of their encounter, mourning that he had to zip up Jos’ pants and push him gently away.   
  
He was starting to regret that there were ten hungry, rambunctious, troublesome people coming over in less than thirty minutes. He hadn’t even had an opportunity to introduce Jos to the delights to be found between Francis’ sheets. But as he thought of all the personalities and tempers that were soon to be crowded around his dinner table, Francis realized he had much more immediate problems than fulfilling his sudden desire to fuck Jos in his bed.   
  
Gods, the thought of Gilbert, Antonio and Jos in the same room was enough to make him shudder and wish for wine. For the first time in his life, he was glad to have Lovino’s company to distract two out of the three, and he would just have to handle the remainder.   
  
Personally. And as often as decorously possible. It was now imperative that he be within touching distance of Jos at all times, realizing that he was going to need all his many, many talents to keep the Big Bad Wolf from throwing any of their splendid guests into the canal.   
  
“My darling,” Francis whispered, “I do hope you enjoyed that.”   
  
Jos pushed away, shaking off the tendrils of pleasure, though his bland expression was betrayed by the lingering pinkness in his cheeks and the hand that remained splayed over Francis’ naked skin. He said nothing, only looking at Francis smugly, pressing one last kiss to Francis' cheek before sauntering out as easily and plainly as he had come into the room.   
  
Francis sighed and ran his fingers though his rapidly drying hair, hoping against hope that the pleasure of a clean kitchen and an orgasm would be enough to stave off Jos’ irritated snapping and flaring through at least the first course.   
  
And that there was enough wine to save them all.

 

 

 

Naturally, the first person to darken his door was Ludwig, carting along an already brilliantly belligerent Gilbert and and a not insubstantial amount of very fine late harvest wines from the Mosel. Francis was tempted to tell Ludwig to keep the booze and ditch the brother when Gilbert wouldn’t even deign to try to punch him in greeting, scowling furiously and muttering about “fucking French brother corrupters and their totally not awesome holiday parties.”   
  
Ludwig merely flushed and attempted to stammer out stern apologies for his brother’s cranky mood, clearly forgetting that Francis had been dealing with Gilbert for more than long enough to know when he was spoiling for a fight and to simply let it come as it may. Also, he knew that sooner (or possibly later depending on the punctuality of the Italians) there would be other targets for Gilbert’s adorable rage.   
  
“Ludwig, Gilbert,” Francis said smoothly, ushering them inside and gleefully divesting the younger brother of his liquid treasure, “I am so glad you could come!”   
  
“Fuck you, Francis! It is so not awesome for you to even mentioning  _coming_  when West and I are in the same damned room. Ugh!” Gilbert groused, making Ludwig grit his teeth and flush once again, which didn’t bother Francis in the least as it was a very attractive look on his favorite repressed tulip with a heart of leather and gold.   
  
“My apologies,” Ludwig said as though he were in front of the principal, “Brother has been in a state since he arrived in Amsterdam and discovered...ah...that is....he neglected to knock and came upon Feliciano and I, well, you see...we were....”   
  
“Rehearsing?” Francis provided helpfully, winking at his petulant friend, enjoying Gilbert’s obvious distress. It did so remind him of some of the wilder days of their youth when Gil had graduated from military school. Though he had claimed to be ready to cut loose, he was so cutely unprepared for exactly how he and Antonio defined “cutting loose.”   
  
“I fucking hate you,” Gilbert grumbled, “Please tell me your perverted ass has enough booze to keep this stupid party hovering somewhere near tolerable.”   
  
Francis bowed and gestured towards the living room, “But of course, what kind of host would I be if I didn’t keep my guests so inebriated they couldn’t tell a good time from a bad? If you’d be so kind as to follow me to into the den...”   
  
He waited until the tension had just started to bleed from both brothers’ shoulders before cheerfully shouting after them, “Of iniquity!”   
  
Much to his amusement, Gilbert actually stumbled into the very tightly packed living room, practically falling into Jos’ arms where the man stood, looking far too composed for someone who had just been licking water from Francis’ skin no more than 15 minutes earlier.   
  
“What the fuck?” Gilbert mumbled, eying Jos suspiciously, “Who the hell are you? Another one of Francis’ pervs?”   
  
“Francis’ pervs?” Jos asked coolly.   
  
“Yeah, you know, like the cute Italian or Antonio?” Gilbert said slowly, crowing into Jos’ space as though he could discern the marks of a pornstar from a close inspection of the face.   
  
“Or your brother,” Francis supplied helpfully, quickly darting out of harm’s way to press up against Jos’ arm when Gilbert snarled and kicked at him, ignoring Ludwig’s pleas for him to calm down.   
  
“I’m nothing like that Spanish idiot,” Jos grumbled, and as he loomed over Gilbert Francis realized he probably should have given his darling co-host the heads-up that there was no fight in the world from which Gilbert was likely to back down.   
  
Francis tutted and shook his head at Gilbert, “This is Jos, the owner of the Blue Tulip and your brother’s boss, so do try to behave yourself.”   
  
Gilbert’s eyes narrowed and he leaned in even closer, completely invading Jos’ personal bubble, and Francis could feel the irritated tension already creeping into the arm to which he was currently clinging.   
  
“So you’re part of the axis of perversity that goes around recruiting idiot younger brothers into your ranks of filth,” Gilbert spat, staring at Francis and Jos with no shortage of suspicion, only giving up the staring contest when Ludwig sighed and dragged Gilbert away.   
  
Jos snorted disdainfully, as though totally unimpressed by Gilbert’s ire, “I’m the one who signs his paycheck. You can blame all acts of depravity on Francis.”   
  
Francis slapped Jos’ arm, offended to be so coldly abandoned, rolling his eyes when Gilbert huffed from behind Ludwig’s large back, “I fucking do.”   
  
“Oh for heaven’s sake,” Francis sighed dramatically, “Do you want some alcohol to help numb your pain? I know I could use some to drown out your whining!”   
  
Gilbert stomped towards the kitchen, growling as he deliberately knocked Jos with his shoulder, petulantly repeating,“I fucking do!”   
  
After following him to the treasure trove of booze, Francis left Gilbert alone to brood with his beer and his ever growing list of complaints, astonished to find that in the time it took him to wrest a bottle of champagne free from the fridge, the most unlikely to be on time duo had arrived.   
  
“This is unusual. I wasn’t aware that the Vargas’ were familiar with punctuality.” Francis murmured in Jos’ ear, counting down the seconds until his presence was discovered and the accusations against him began anew, albeit from an entirely new and equally as vociferous source.   
  
Jos smirked with satisfaction, “Yesterday I informed the Italian that the party started an hour ago.”   
  
“Always so clever, my darling,” Francis whispered with amusement, “How lovely of you to get everyone to arrive on your time! Tell me, dear, what time I should expect Antonio?”   
  
Jos looked shiftily away, though Francis could discern that far too attractive hint of gently malicious mischief in his lingering smirk. He hoped Antonio arrived in time for dessert, the poor fool.   
  
“You!” An irate voice screeched at him from a sullen mouth that was significantly less cute than that of his younger brother.   
  
“Me?” Francis said innocently, pulling away from the relative safety of Jos’ shoulder to smile prettily into Lovino Vargas’ permanently angry face.   
  
“Don’t get cute with me, you fuckfaced Frenchman,” Lovino howled while waving his arms wildly and gesturing at Feliciano, who was currently trying to climb Ludwig like a tree, demanding kisses, “You’re the bane of my goddamned existence! You turned this idiot into a potato fucking pervert.”   
  
“But, Brother, I don’t ever fuck potatoes!” Feliciano said cheerfully, finally removing his lips from Ludwig’s overly red face, patting Lovino on the shoulder as he helpfully explained, “Only men!”   
  
Lovino spluttered with outrage, attempting to massacre the room with his most deadly of dirty looks.   
  
“I’m going to fucking end you for this,” Lovino growled, pointing at Francis, ignoring Feliciano’s attempts to smother his rage in a blanket of cheery, nattering affection and worry.   
  
“Why, Lovino, it always is such a pleasure to see you,” Francis purred, stalking towards a rapidly retreating Italian, “You’ve so much....passion....I’ve often wondered if I recruited the wrong brother! Mmm, I can just picture it. You and Antonio. Or perhaps you’d like try on a strapping Northern European for a change? The thought of you would be enough to make me consider coming out of retirement, my little prickly pear.”   
  
“Gah! Get the fuck away from me you sick fuck!” Lovino shrieked, fleeing towards the safety of the kitchen, cheeks still steaming as hot as Ludwig’s.   
  
Francis sighed in relief, thrilled to discover he retained a surefire way to get Lovino the hell away from him in a hurry, unsurprised to find Feliciano giggling and Ludwig turning an unpleasant shade of green.   
  
“Are all of your dinner guests so fond of you?” Jos asked with obvious interest, even as he winced at the volume of Lovino’s opinion on discovering another ‘fucking potato bastard’ in the kitchen.   
  
Francis drank deeply from his glass, wondering if perhaps he should have just started drinking straight from the bottle, readying himself to answer Jos’ question when the doorbell rang once again.   
  
“Let’s find out, shall we?” Francis murmured with dark humor, clutching his booze and making his way to let in the next round of guests.   
  
“Oh, Feliks, I cannot tell you how lovely it is to see your gorgeous smile!” Francis said with genuine delight when he discovered Feliks and a very solemn but handsome man waiting on his welcome mat.   
  
“Ha, but wouldn’t it like be awesome if you tried?” Feliks answered tartly, before threading his arm through his companion’s dragging him forward, “This is Toris. Toris, this is Francis. He’s the one to blame for whenever I come home like way too sore to even think about doing it.”   
  
Toris winced, smiling tentatively, “Ah...nice to meet you? Thanks for having me.”   
  
Francis wondered how many more things for which he would blamed before he’d even managed to serve the first course as waved them both inside, surreptitiously checking out Toris’ rear view, chiming, “You’re very welcome! The more the merrier.”   
  
Feliks spun around, snapping his fingers in Francis’ still admiring face, “Yes, yes, he’s totes presh and adorable, but listen to me Francey-pants, he’s also totally mine, so don’t go getting any ideas.”   
  
Francis clutched at his chest in mock offense, “I wouldn’t dream of it.”   
  
Feliks laughed, “Bah, who wouldn’t dream of it. Like, look at him!"   
  
Francis did. Toris looked distinctly uncomfortable and in desperate need of a drink. Francis liked him already.   
  
Francis thought there might not be enough drinks in the world to save the party from total chaos when Feliks strolled into the living room and promptly tripped over his heels and shrieked, “Oh my God!” at the same moment that Gilbert dropped his beer and demanded to know, “What the fuck are you doing here!”   
  
The two circled each other like animals in the wild, nearly snarling as they sized one another up. Francis had to wonder if this is what he looked liked when he encountered a rogue Arthur.   
  
“Still not the brightest bulb in the box are you, Gilby?” Feliks taunted, eyes still bright with surprise, one hand fisted in Toris’ shirt, “Like obviously I am totes here for the same reason the better Beilschmidt brother is!”   
  
“Ugh, you’re another one of Francis’ perverts. Why am I surprised?” Gilbert grumbled, allowing Ludwig to shove him aside so he could furiously scrub the floor clean of the sacrilege of spilled hops.   
  
“Because you’re kind of stupid?” Feliks snapped back with a winning smile, leaning his head on Toris’ shoulder. Gilbert foamed at the mouth.   
  
“So sorry to interrupt this joyous reunion, but how exactly do you know each other?” Francis asked with avid curiosity, wondering how it was one of his oldest friends was acquainted with yet another of his precious Tulips. Gilbert did seem to have an unfortunate penchant for collection pornstars in his rolodex of friends.   
  
Feliks snorted dismissively, “Duh. I had like the great misfortune of being stuck at the same school with this loser. Even if he was just a scrawny little pleb and I was like king of the land.”   
  
“Oh fuck you! You were just jealous of my awesome, you coattail riding, legacy admission little snot,” Gilbert sniffed in offense, while his brother fussed with the spilled beer and Lovino tried and failed to drag Feliciano away from hovering at Ludwig’s side.   
  
“Please,” Feliks said mockingly, twirling a finger in his hair and grabbing at Toris’ hand, “As if I would ever have had cause to be jealous of a walking fashion disaster of a wannabe. You’re just lucky I didn’t kick you when you ran around nipping at my heels like an ugly misbehaving puppy!”   
  
“Ah, pardon the interruption again,” Francis interjected quickly, fearing for more of his china if GIlbert became any more irate, “But, Feliks, darling, are you saying you went to the same military academy as dear Gilbert?”   
  
Feliks must have heard the color of his disbelief, his voice going haughty as he answered, “What? Like someone as fab as I am can’t also be a manly badass?”   
  
“You can’t,” Gilbert grumbled, scowling when Feliks shushed him.   
  
“Like you would even know, you melanin challenged weirdo,” Feliks said smartly, before ignoring Gilbert entirely to spin his tale for his breathless audience.   
  
Well, at least Francis was breathless as he pressed in close enough to smell Jos’ cologne, always interested in knowing deep dark secrets about his nearest and dearest. All the better to love them with, of course.   
  
“Anywhoodles, my family’s been all up in the military for like ever, you know, being kind of noble and all, so I was just doing my bit for the fam and putting up with totally drab outfits and boring lectures. It was totes lame, but I did manage to discover my precious Toris in all that rough. Also, I was like a wicked good student.” Feliks said non-nonchalantly while Gilbert fumed in the background, marveling Francis with his ability to drain an entire bottle of beer without breathing or looking any less murderous.   
  
“Bullshit,” Gilbert snarled, ducking under Ludwig’s restraining arm, “You were total crap without Toris to carry your lazy ass.”   
  
“Its like the one hundred percent truth, though your jealousy is as sad now as it was then, dude! I spent two years trying to avoid this lame ass German kid who kept following me around challenging me to put my awesome up against his. His failitude was almost kind of cute until it just got way old and I had to let him win just so he would like go bug someone else. Anyways, after awhile, I was totes over it and Toris and I had been cruelly, forcibly separated, so I bounced. And then Fancy Francis discovered me doing drag in this total dive, and now like here we are!” Feliks explained brightly, stunning the room into silence.   
  
Francis gave Gilbert a sympathetic pat on the shoulder as he stormed out of the room, preparing either to go into a full on sulk or get very, very drunk. Without proper distraction, Francis had a sneaking suspicion he might just do both.   
  
“Bring the bottles back with you, my darling,” Francis called after him, “I think we need to celebrate this unexpected reconnection of old friends!”   
  
Francis laughed right over Gilbert’s angry, curse laden response to his question, amused that Ludwig immediately scurried after his brother, no doubt to smooth his feathers, reprimand him for his rudeness, and bring Francis his wine. Naturally, Ludwig’s departure was followed by Feliciano’s, which was in turn stalked by a flummoxed Lovino, who seemed unable to process that he might not be the angriest one in the room for once in his cranky little life.   
  
“Am I drunk?” Jos whispered to Francis, lips just brushing the curve of his neck, making him sit up and pay attention to his favorite Dutchman once again.   
  
“No, but I think it would be a wise idea to pursue that posthaste, my darling,” Francis whispered back, “Seeing as how we’ve not even filled the house yet.”   
  
“I’m going outside to wait for my sister,” Jos said stonily.   
  
“By which you mean you’re going outside for a smoke and leaving me here with the rabble, you horrid man,” Francis teased warmly, wondering if Jos would take kindly to having his ear nibbled in front of his subordinates. He knew that given a few more hours and a few more bottles of wine, he wouldn’t even bother to wonder.   
  
“Your party, your problem,” Jos remarked coolly, all too quickly dragging his thumb down the roughened edge of Francis’ jaw before making a very strategic retreat.   
  
“Oh, thank God!” Feliks sighed dramatically, flopping down into Francis’ arm chair, pulling his put-upon boyfriend down with him, winking at Francis, “Only the prettiest people are left in the room.”   
  
“Too right,” Francis answered cheerily, “Though I think we shall have to surrender our crown when the lovely Ms. van Rijn arrives.”   
  
“Whatevs,” Feliks said boredly, while Toris sat stiffly beside him, trying to arrange the sprawl of their limbs so they could both sit with some dignity.   
  
“Who is Ms. van Rijn?” He asked politely.   
  
“Duh, she’s the boss’ sister!” Feliks said exasperatedly, curling his legs under him and resting a possessive hand over Toris’ knee, giving Francis completely unnecessary “hands-off” warning signs.   
  
As though he didn’t have bigger fish to catch, Francis thought smugly, imaging Jos, standing on his stairs, smoking and pretending he wasn’t a little anxious about the prospect of his sister being thrown into their daily chaos.   
  
“And which one was the boss?”   
  
Feliks rolled his eyes, “The tall, surly looking dude who had Francey-pants practically humping his leg!”   
  
Francis startled at that remark, momentarily questioning whether or not he had been far too obvious in his preferential treatment of their dear leader, only to be given a temporary reprieve from defending himself from such an outrageous accusation by the timely arrival of the man in question with his sister and the Jones brothers in tow.   
  
“I found these two loitering outside,” Jos grumbled, eying Francis suspiciously as his sister tried to shift around the protective bulk of his shoulders, eventually just shoving Jos out of the way to finally reveal herself.   
  
And Ms. van Rijn was lovely, smiling gamely as Francis floated towards her, all charm and light, pouring in on thick just to irritate her hovering sibling, all velvet and warmth when he took her hand and kissed each cheek, “Ms. van Rijn, it is wonderful to meet you. Your wicked brother has been hiding you from us all this time, and now I think were I your brother I might do the same.”   
  
“Please call me Veronika,” She answered cheerfully, handing over a delicious smelling pie, all softness and ease, though the sudden sharpness of her grin betrayed the family resemblance as she continued, “Though I would recommend against doing the same as Jos. I would so hate to see such a charming man as yourself behave like such a boor!”   
  
For that Francis felt compelled to kiss her cheeks again, entranced and not intimidated in the least by the thunderous disapproval in Jos’ eyes as he murmured, “I adore you already, dear Veronika, and not least for bringing the pie!”   
  
Veronika giggled merrily, as though she had not a care in the world, though Francis had been around the block long enough to know when he was being carefully slid under the microscope of perception, feeling the curious weight of Veronika’s stare heightened by the thrum of strange tension in Jos’ body.   
  
“Man, its totally cold out here, Francis! Can we come in already or what?”   
  
“Oh, Alfred, apologies, come in, come in! I’m eager to meet this mysterious brother of yours!” Francis said as his house reached near maximum capacity as the Jones boys crammed into the hallway.   
  
“I’m only mysterious because he conveniently only remembers I exist when he wants company for the holidays,” the other brother teased, smiling softly as Alfred pouted and protested such slanders.   
  
“That is way unfair, Matt! You know I would never do you like that!”   
  
“Wouldn’t you? News to me!” Matthew said briskly before holding out his hand to Francis, “Anyways, I’m Matthew Jones. Thanks for putting up with this guy and for having us over for Christmas.”   
  
“Enchanted,” Francis answered delightedly, “I presume you met the other half of the Blue Tulip and his lovely sister outside?”   
  
“Oh, yes,” Veronika interjected, shaking her hair free as Jos helped her out of her coat, “Matthew and I have already discovered we have so much in common.   
  
Francis looked between them with curiosity, not failing to note that Jos and Alfred suddenly both seemed to have an offended crick in their jaw.   
  
“Do tell,” Francis purred, taking both Veronika and Matthew by the arms, ignoring Alfred’s loud warnings to not get any ideas about his awesome little brother. His kingdom to recruit some only children, Francis mused as yet another overprotective sibling threatened violence to protect the already lost virtue of their family members.   
  
“We both have ridiculous brothers,” Matthew sighed while Veronika giggled. Francis could easily imagine Alfred’s ridiculousness, sweet and overbearing affection, but couldn’t keep from wanting Veronika to further paint her picture of Jos the family character.   
  
Veronika was peering at him through her eyelashes, a beguiling sight indeed as she gave him exactly what he wanted, “Jos still grumbles whenever I come to Amsterdam alone, for all that I am twenty-five years old and live on my own in Antwerp. Somehow he seems to forget that I manage well enough without him every other day of the week.”   
  
Francis laughed and looked over at his shoulder, smiling into Jos’s stony, irritated glare, turning back to Veronika, “My darling, Jos doesn’t think anyone can manage anything quite as well as he does.”   
  
Veronika laughed, eying him curiously as she squeezed his hand, “Mmm, perhaps that is true, but I would prefer that he save it for more appreciative audiences!”   
  
“And you, Matthew,” Francis asked his neglected companion, “What complaints do you have about dear, sweet Alfred?”   
  
Matthew pushed his glasses up his nose, voice mildly bemused, though he spoke loudly enough for the two maligned older brothers to hear, “Alfred insisted I come visit him for the holidays. Which is fine, of course, but he seems to forget, like he conveniently forgets anything that doesn’t fit in his plans, that I’ve spent more time in the Netherlands than he has and therefore do not need the whirlwind Alfred Jones extravanganza tour.”   
  
“Really?” Veronika asked, leaning around Francis.   
  
“I’ve always liked the country,” Matthew answered with a smile, “And Amsterdam in particular.” Exasperation crept into his words, “But this guy insists that no one is better tour guide than he is and proceeds to drag me around the city and completely ignores me when I tell him I’ve no interest in visiting the Museum of Sex.”   
  
Francis laughed heartily, remembering his own experience on the Alfred Jones tour train, turning to scold his newest recruit, “Honestly, Alfred, the Museum of Sex? Of all the places in this fair city, you drag your brother to the Red Light District?”   
  
Alfred pouted, grumbling defiantly, “I just thought it would be a good idea to know the history of my trade!”   
  
Jos smirked nastily, pushing Francis away from his sister as he steered them into the living room and said, “No need. You have history’s living perversion right here.”   
  
Francis was about to upbraid dear Jos for daring to insinuate that he was  _old_ when the five of them crossed into the living room to encounter an eerie silence that boded well for no one, least of all Francis’ fine china.   
  
“Dude, who died?” Alfred said boisterously, slinging an arm around his brother’s shoulders.   
  
“No one yet,” Gilbert said with that smile that always gave Francis a moment of pause, “But the night’s still young.”   
  
“Still talking big, eh, Gilbert?” Feliks chortled from his seat, totally unfazed by Gilbert’s deadly glare as he explained, “Its like this. Gilby and this pissy Italian over here have been getting into over like who’s to blame for the fact that their brothers are taking lessons in the horizontal tango.”   
  
“What’s to argue about? Its the fucking potato’s fault! Just look at these shifty-eyed shitheads. Of course my idiot brother would fall victim to their disgusting German tactics!” Lovino fumed.   
  
“Hah! Shows what you know, dumbass!” Gilbert shouted, “It was your cute but devious brother who lured West away from his proper place at his older, much handsomer, and smarter brother’s side.”   
  
Francis and company watched this exchange as one might watch a very poorly played tennis match. Feliks had apparently appointed himself judge, as he interrupted the mudslinging to helpfully inform the warring opponents:   
  
“Boys, boys! Like might I remind you that we were all totes brought here by the same person? So like instead of making my ears bleed with your lame insults, couldn’t you just join forces and pursue the real enemy?”   
  
Toris looked pained, Lovino and Gilbert were at once frighteningly similar in bloodthirsty eagerness while their brothers tried (and failed) to use logic, cajoling, whining, treats, and threats to get them to call an armistice for the evening.   
  
“Huh, for once a the Polish princess speaks sense,” Gilbert marveled, tapping a finger against his chin and grinning maniacally at Francis, who tried to skirt behind Jos and the couch.   
  
“Fuck, I can’t believe I’m going to agree with a your stupid looking ass, but you’re right. We’ve lost sight of the true goddamned enemy," Lovino groused, moving towards him.   
  
“I’ve even better idea than attacking the wonderful, selfless individual who has spent hours preparing a feast,” Francis said quickly, determined to starting stuffing mouths with food and alcohol instead of insults in the hopes of saving his sanity, “Perhaps you might take your seats for dinner?”   
  
It seemed that the appeal of nourishment was greater than that of violence as Lovino and Gilbert merely glared at him one last time for good measure (naturally, Francis felt properly chastised) before shuffling towards the table, jostling each other while Feliks shrieked and darted away from Gilbert’s careening body.   
  
Francis huffed and turned to Jos and his sister, already exhausted, wishing he could either rewind his evening to the quiet comfort of a kitchen pas-de-deux or fast-forward to being tipsy enough to longer feel overly concerned for the well being of his far too high maintenance guests.   
  
“My darling, perhaps you would be good enough to assist me in the kitchen?” He asked, mood lightening at once when both Van Rijn siblings made to walk with him, an action that did not go unnoticed by a smirking Veronika.   
  
“Well, well,” She murmured prettily, nudging Francis’ shoulder as they walked together.   
  
“Hmm?” Francis demurred, knowing he was fooling no one, but enjoying the sudden look of suspicion in Jos’ eyes when he realized that Francis was canoodling with his sister behind his back.   
  
“Thank you for bringing such a lovely pie,” Francis chatted as he loaded down Jos’ arms with trays of oysters, handing bottles of champagne to Veronika, keeping several for himself.   
  
Veronika’s smile was gilded in the Van Rijn style when she said, “Oh, you are very welcome, but mine is nothing compared to Jos’. You should have him make it for you sometime.”   
  
Francis admired Jos’ younger sister and her uncanny ability to make Jos behave in an awfully shifty manner, picking up the thread of harassment, “Why, Jos, I had no idea you could bake! I absolutely insist that you make me your appeltaarte immediately.”   
  
Jos gave him a heavy look, voice low and thick, “And what will you give me for it?”   
  
Warming, wishing that they were alone, Francis purred, “Quote me a price and I’ll take it under consideration.”   
  
“Only if you manage to survive!” Veronika interjected merrily, eyes twinkling as she looped her arm through her brother’s, muttering under her breath, “Were you flirting, Jos? I'm astonished.”   
  
Francis laughed wryly before availing himself of one of the open bottles of wine, taking a large swig, “Oh, my dear girl, I fully intended to drink enough wine to wake up tomorrow with a wicked hangover but otherwise intact!”   
  
Five minutes later, the table was set and the glasses were loaded with beautiful champagne, the glint of the candles casting a mellow light, temporarily rendering the guests into appreciative quiet. Francis settled at the head of the table, winking at Jos at the opposite head, flooded with what he knew would be very fleeting contentment in a room full of characters, but nevertheless unshakably glad to be in this place, at this moment, with these people.   
  
He cleared his throat and clinked his fork against the side of his never empty glass, “A toast perhaps?”   
  
Feliciano raised his hand from its less than subtle resting place in Ludwig’s lap, asking gently, “Shouldn’t we wait for Antonio?”   
  
“Fuck no!” Lovino said with a shudder, “Don’t we have enough goddamned sickos at one table?”   
  
“No,” Jos answered shortly, “The price for lateness is being left out.”   
  
“Ass,” Gilbert coughed into his hand, slapping away Ludwig’s scolding.   
  
Francis arched an eyebrow, peering down the table at Jos’ shark grin, sighing, “Dear Antonio will just have to arrive when he arrives. Now, as I was saying...”   
  
Alfred shot up from his chair, clasping Matthew’s shoulder, holding his glass out over the table, “A toast!”   
  
‘Ah, the brashness of youth,’ Francis thought with fond resignation, pouring himself another drink and letting the American take it away.   
  
Alfred beamed at him, lighting the room with his smile and his good cheer, “A toast to Francis and Jos for throwing us this awesome party. And to Francis for opening his door to our siblings, and to our brothers and sister for coming too...”   
  
“Fuck, don’t say coming!”   
  
Alfred glared at Gilbert, while Matthew just shook his head, “Ahem. Thank you to some of our siblings for being cool enough to come to Amsterdam and be with us. Jos, Francis, you keep our lives damned interesting. Merry Christmas, everyone! Cheers!”   
  
“Cheers,” Francis murmured clinking his glass to Feliciano’s, smiling fondly when Feliciano pressed a wet champagne kiss to Ludwig’s cheek, happy that for a tiny moment, everyone was satisfied with well wishes and good food.   
  
The relative peace lasted through most of the first and second courses, the room bubbling with laughter and the occasional snarling insult as the ire slowly started to drown under a sea of wine and beer and the warmth of a cozy table and shared feeling. Francis felt pleasantly weighted down as the hours ticked forward, the candles melting ever lower, watching Jos pour his sister’s wine or chat with Alfred’s quieter brother, gamely tuning out the on-going debate over which nation’s football team was better, Germany or Italy.   
  
(Though he pitied poor Antonio for falling victim to such an obvious trap, Francis could not help but he glad that he was not there to rile Jos’ national pride with his Spanishness and far too recent memories of 2010.)   
  
  
The alcoholic haze of lifted only once, teetering on the edge of chaos for but a moment, as Francis continued to ply his contentious, but precious, friends with course after course of wonderful French cuisine, each paired with another bottle, laughter slowly replacing harsh words, glares softening in the candle light.   
  
The ceasefire lasted until Feliks plopped his fork down on his plate, apparently tired of being ignored in favor of football rivalries, fluttering his eyelashes as he eyed Gilbert and Lovino with an evil smile.   
  
“So, I bet you and you, and those much cuter two, are totes wondering who’s done who at this table. Well, I’m gonna like do you a crazy favor and just remove all the suspense. We’ve pretty much all been up in each other’s business.”   
  
“Um, Feliks, perhaps that wasn’t the nicest thing to share at the dinner table,” Toris sighed as his boyfriend delighted in Gilbert’s even paler face and Lovino’s wide-eyed rage.   
  
“Pish,” Feliks scoffed, “I just said what they were totally thinking. Its not like I mentioned positions or dick size. Ooooh, that could be fun a party game!”   
  
“What the fuck is wrong with you!” Lovino howled, scrubbing at his eyes as though he wished to erase certain visions.   
  
“I’m going to kill you,” Gilbert groaned, fumbling desperately for his beer.   
  
“I might help, quite frankly,” Matthew chimed in, wincing when Alfred loudly told him, “Yeah, that’s pretty much true! Hahaha, dude, that’s crazy! I’ve had sex with like so many people.”   
  
“The family is very proud,” Matthew grumbled, throwing his brother’s arm off of his shoulders.   
  
“Just so you know, West, you can come back home anytime, forget you ever knew any of these perverted fucks,” Gilbert said fervently.   
  
“Oh for fuck’s sake, Feliciano, don’t goddamned cry at the dinner table,” Lovino grumbled while Ludwig rushed to assure Feliciano that he had no intentions of leaving.   
  
“Yeah, don’t worry, sweets. Germany’ll be plowing your fields for like ever,” Feliks supplied helpfully, causing Gilbert and Lovino to renew their threats against his life.   
  
Jos’ palm hit the table, his voice low and threatening, “Could you idiots not discuss such things in front of my sister?”   
  
Veronika rolled her eyes, “Oh, please, brother. As though you have a leg to stand on when it comes to having sex with people at this table.”   
  
Francis stood swiftly, hoping that his flush would be mistaken for lush blush as he shouted over the din, “Excellent, wonderful, thank you for such a charming topic, Feliks.”   
  
“Ah ha ha, did I miss something?” A new voice interrupted, all eleven heads turning to stare at a Antonio standing at the edge of the living room, looking more confused than ever, smiling warily into the chaos.   
  
“Oh! We’re just talking about who’s slept with whom at the party,” Feliciano said dreamily, stroking Ludwig’s arm, “You know, like you and Francis.”   
  
“Well, let’s not dwell in the past! Antonio, I can’t imagine why you were so late. But come, sit down, sit down, tell us what you’ve been up to. In great detail.” Francis said hurriedly, feeling the weight of several glares on the back of his neck, “Anyhow, who wants some more goose? More booze?”   
  
Answering the uniform shouts for more drinks(and Alfred’s enthusiastic demand for more food), Francis made a strategic retreat from the table, taking in the stacks of plates and glassware spilling out of his meager sink onto the counter, indulging in a quiet glass of wine as he listened to Lovino shout down Antonio’s attempts to ask after him.   
  
“Another mess,” Jos said heavily, striding into the kitchen to deposit another load of dishes onto the ever growing stack.   
  
“The kitchen or the party?” Francis asked wryly, pleasantly surprised when Jos came beside him, leaning against the counter and helping himself to a deep sip of Francis’ wine.   
  
“Anything involving those idiots somehow necessitates a mess.”   
  
Francis took his wine back, tilting up to rest his chin on Jos’ shoulder, murmuring, “Now, now, those idiots, and I am going presume you are excluding your far too lovely sister from that designation, made you an awful lot of money this year.”   
  
“Made  _us_  an awful lot of money,” Jos corrected, brushing his lips over Francis’ wine warmed mouth.   
  
“Mmm, so its  _our_  money, but  _my_ party and therefore all the messes, kitchen and otherwise, are my problems,” Francis teased as he kissed back ever so lightly, an almost there slide of lips over lips, unexpected softness in the eye of the storm.   
  
“You’ll survive,” Jos retorted lowly, pulling away to open the fridge and fetch more juice to keep the troops in line.   
  
“I always do,” Francis answered happily, refilling his own drink and tucking a bottle of Ludwig’s wonderful wine under his arm, “So, once more into the breach, my darling. May we live to see the end of the dessert course and the return of once clean counters!”   
  
Back at the table, the rabble seemed to have gotten over their rousing, everyone listening to Veronika tell tales of the couples who came into her boutique in Antwerp to buy engagement rings. Francis risked all Jos’ fury to press a kiss to her cheek and whisper, “Merci,” when he saw that even Gilbert and Feliks had laid down their arms to listen to her stories of romance high and low.   
  
And though Francis knew that Jos was alternating between glaring at Antonio and trying to keep his sister from wheedling company secrets about her brother out of Feliciano, and that Gilbert and Lovino were likely to end up passed out under the table before dessert, and that Alfred had managed to consume so much food that a stomachache was inevitable, and that Matthew was annoyed that his brother had ignored his advice to perhaps not eat so much just this once, and that Feliks was likely to stir the pot again as soon as he got bored, the tentative peace in his heart settled once more.   
  
He was blanketed in wine and satisfaction, warmed through with pride for all that he and these people had done together in the course of just one year, turning a two person risk into the Blue Tulip Studios. He had so much to be grateful for that he couldn’t help but meet Jos’ gaze across the table, raising his glass in a quiet toast, smiling at the smug pleasure that was returned to him.   
  
He felt as though he could see the future spinning out over the table, threads joining them all together as they ate, drank, and argued, much like a family would, filling his heart with gladness. Oh, they were a dysfunctional, twisted bunch to be sure, with two “parents” that danced the most dangerous tango of all, but in that moment Francis believed that there was nothing that could uproot them, nothing they couldn’t do together.   
  
And later, when they were all crowded around his coffee table and the remnants of his beautiful Bouche de Noel, too drunk and full to be anything other than lazily belligerent or loosely affectionate depending on who was in close proximity to who, Francis felt long fingers slide into his hair to stroke possessively over his neck.   
  
“Still surviving, I see.” Jos whispered into his ear.   
  
“Mmm, I have excellent allies,” Francis murmured sleepily, arching into the touch, “I’d make it up to you if you stayed.”   
  
The fingers in his hair tightened, “Veronika and I must go to our grandparents’ tomorrow morning. But I’ll keep your debt on the books.”   
  
“And will it collect interest?” Francis asked, letting his eyes fall shut, knowing it was dangerous to leave himself so vulnerable in a room full of drunken heathens who blamed him for all manner of sins, but too warm and weary to care over much, trusting that Jos wouldn’t let him come to any excessive harm.   
  
“Of course,” Jos answered before withdrawing his wonderful hand, though Francis thought he felt a cool touch across his forehead just before the remaining minutes of Christmas Eve faded into a haze of sleep and wine and dreams of sugar plum fairies.   
  
Much later, when the bottles clanked and stomachs groaned, Francis woke up alone in bed, unsure of how long he had been asleep, reeling from too much wine and too much four lettered excitement to discover Amsterdam on a bright, cold Christmas morning. It seemed he had survived the best and worst party he had ever thrown. And with all his limbs attached. And though he hadn’t managed to lure Jos between his sheets, it somehow made the man all the more intriguing, that he was so devoted to a rare few in such secret and mundane ways.   
  
Beyond his bedroom window, he found Lovino and Gilbert under the table, Feliciano sprawled atop Ludwig on the couch, Feliks curled into Toris’ side under a blanket on the chair and a wrapped piece of Veronika’s apple pie sitting next to a coffee cup in the most pristine kitchen he’d ever encountered.   
  
And on the counter there was a note:   
  
_This time its on the house. Merry Christmas.  
  
-Jos_   
  
"Oh, Merry Christmas, my darling," Francis murmured happily, daydreaming about what the New Year would hold.

 


	6. Revelry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New Year's Eve

His cell phone rang shortly after 8pm on Christmas Day just as Francis was finally ushering the last of the Christmas Eve stragglers out of his apartment, no longer interested in listening to Gilbert harangue him about being the cause of his great sibling shame and his wicked hangover. He’d been a little sad to see Antonio go, as he made for very comfortable and willing pillow when they all sprawled across his living room trying to undo the damage of the previous evening’s Bacchanalia until he checked the caller ID and read  _Jos_ .   
  
“Merry Christmas, dearest,” Francis answered, kicking the front door shut and sighing in relief as his space once again became his own, already daydreaming out how he would wile away the days of holiday during the Studio's closure.   
  
“Merry Christmas,” Jos answered perfunctorily, his voice distant and muffled, leading Francis to assume he was in his car, doubtless on his way home, or God forbid to the office, from his Oma’s house.   
  
“Please tell me you aren’t on your way to the office, my darling,” Francis said with a sigh, making his way to his still beautifully cleaned kitchen, smiling as he thought of Jos scrubbing his plates and washing his glasses while he sank into a sea of champagne.   
  
“I am not,” Jos responded, “But I am calling to discuss a work related matter.”   
  
Francis scoffed, pouring the remainder of some bubbly into a clean tumbler, not caring how that looked now that there was no one around to witness him drinking champagne out of a water glass while wearing torn jeans and an old sweater that he’d purloined from his very first shoot.   
  
“While your work ethic is undeniably attractive, it is still Christmas,” Francis said disapprovingly, “Thank you for the gift, by the way, it was most helpful not to have to run the dishwasher considering the unfortunate state of my head this morning.”   
  
“It was necessary. I hardly trusted your idiot friends to do a proper job of it,” Jos said flatly, and Francis could almost picture the way his forehead would wrinkle from being so complimented before Jos was once again all work and no play, “And normally even I wouldn’t bother with business on a holiday, but the timing is short and I require your assistance.”   
  
Francis took his glass of now mediocre champagne with him, trailing into the bedroom as he held the phone between ear and shoulder, “The timing is short for what exactly, my sweet?”   
  
“I want the Blue Tulip to host a New Year’s Eve party at one of the Amsterdam clubs.”   
  
Francis startled, laughing a little in surprise, “You do, do you? I wouldn’t have thought you would want to sink to my level of conducting business in the club.”   
  
Jos snorted, “Humorous as always, Francis. I would sooner not have anything to do with it, but my most recent conversations with Kiku have me concerned with solidifying our brand presence, particularly at a local level.’   
  
Francis frowned, flopping onto the bed, “How fortunate that you have someone on the outside to provide such insights.”   
  
There was a long lull of silence in which Francis listened to Jos breathe and the distant sound of his blinker clicking before Francis sighed and said, “You are right, I suppose, it would be best if the Blue Tulip was better known within Amsterdam as an Amsterdam business. It wouldn’t hurt  to show off our assets to create customer loyalty.”   
  
“Exactly,” Jos answered smugly, clearly thinking he had won his argument, “And they are all in town at the moment. And owe us for such a...lively...Christmas Eve party.”   
  
Francis rolled on to his stomach, taking another sip before tossing a wrench into Jos’ plans, “While I am sure that it would not be overly difficult to convince our lovely young tulips to dance and drink and do what they do best on our dime, I still have one objection, my darling.”   
  
“Yes?” Jos said in a clipped tone, clearly unprepared for Francis not to throw his full enthusiasm behind a wild night in a club.   
  
And though the idea had appeal, (Francis was already envisioning a steady series of launch events for their new titles to bring all the boys to the yard to hand over their milkshake money), the timing was a definite stumbling block.   
  
“Its possible I’ve never mentioned it before,” Francis allowed, though he wondered how likely it was that neither Gilbert or Antonio had brought it up the previous evening, “ But it is tradition that Gil, Toni, and I go behave very badly in either Madrid, Berlin, or Paris for New Year’s.”   
  
“No,” Jos said quickly and firmly, a hint of irritation creeping into his tone, “I was not aware of that. And you prefer to keep tradition?”   
  
Francis sighed and rubbed a hand over his face, “Its not a matter of preference, my darling. Of course, I want to do what is best for the business...”   
  
“Glad to hear it,” Jos snarked coldly before his voice softened into something more considering, “Of course your time is your own and I am certain I can handle this venture solo.”   
  
The thought of Jos holding court over a Blue Tulip event without him felt like lead weight on his chest, though the simultaneous idea of Jos trying to woo customers with his stony glare and cold demeanor was deeply amusing.   
  
“But tell me, since you seem to have an eye for these things, how should I best use our talent?” Jos asked smoothly, interrupting Francis’ reverie involving Jos standing in the glittering light of the disco ball, smirking as the entire dance floor shone blue, just for them.   
  
For a moment, Francis considered insisting Jos come join in him in his bed if they were going to conduct business on Christmas night, before remembering the state of his hair and tamping down the strange frisson of anxious desire that coursed through him at the idea of proposing something so boldly intimate.   
  
“Well,” He said instead, turning on to his back and settling on the pillow, “As this would be our first turn around the block, the most important thing is having our name everywhere. Keep it simple, so the focus is on the Studio, not any particular star or theme.”   
  
“Go on,” Jos encouraged and as always Francis warmed to his interest, closing his eyes and picturing some nameless club.   
  
“Hmm, perhaps something as basic as _Ring Your New Year’s Bell with the Boys of the Blue Tulip_ . It will be an investment, but insist that the club not charge a higher cover than any other night of the year, tell them the Studio will foot the difference. We want our name associated with hot men and even hotter nights, and eventually, if all goes well, next year, we can ask double the cover charge for the privilege of celebrating with the Tulip.”   
  
“Acceptable,” Jos agreed. Francis preened a little at his ready acquiescence, pleased that his opinion carried enough weight to be worth parting with their gold.   
  
Francis hummed appreciatively, continuing to spin out his grand plan, “Ask the club to prepare a special cocktail, blue naturally, and make it the special of the night. If management will go for it, let’s have one of our Tulips be allowed to it.”   
  
“Staffing suggestions?”   
  
Francis considered, “Well, I would have suggested the exuberant Dane, but as I’ve experienced his dance moves up close and personally..”   
  
“No doubt,” Jos interrupted with a sneer, causing Francis to roll his eyes and barrel on before they could get into another silent war over proper recruitment tactics.   
  
“As I was saying, I think Jens would serve us better on the dance floor, or preferably, as a go-go dancer on display for the entire crowd to see. He’ll adore it. We won’t even have to offer to pay for his drinks. I’d suggest tossing Feliks and Feliciano on a platform as well, since I know they can dance and I imagine their lovers would prefer we not have them mingling with the lusty masses.”   
  
“Fine,” Jos said shortly, “And the bartender?”   
  
“So impatient, my darling,” Francis reprimanded him gently, wishing he could irritate Jos further by kissing the ever present wrinkle of consternation, “Genius such as this, particularly on Christmas night with a hangover the likes of which I haven’t experienced since university, does not come without some effort. Do try to be considerate of your poor Francis.”   
  
“I do little else,” was the flat answer Francis received for his pains, though he could not help but smile and laugh, cradling the phone nearer.   
  
“Put Alfred and Ludwig at the bar. Alfred can charm and chat while Ludwig ensures that customers actually do receive their drink in a timely and orderly manner.”   
  
Francis yawned, “As for the rest of the team, have them take turns manning a photo booth, where, naturally, we will also generously provide the opportunity to subscribe to the site, buy DVDs, or just have their appetites whetted by the wonderful array of Blue Tulip products.”   
  
“Sounds reasonable.”   
  
Francis smiled, thinking of how successful such an event as he described would be...a real coming out party for his precious Blue Tulip, finally ready to fully blossom.   
  
“Oh!” Francis said suddenly, smacking himself for not having thought of it sooner, “You must have Eduard post the event information on our website, give all our current subscribers the news. Particularly as we are throwing this together at the last minute, it would be best to have as many current fans in attendance to convince the herd that we’re worthy of their 20 euros a month.”   
  
“You never fail to impress me,” Jos said after a long, quiet moment, broken only by the sounds of his keys turning off the ignition and Francis’ shuffling movements on the bed, digging around for his laptop, wondering how much of a penalty he would incur for canceling his hotel room in Paris with such short notice.   
  
“I do so enjoy it when you tell me such pretty lies,” Francis purred, ignoring Jos’ huff of amusement, “So much so that I’ve generously decided to rearrange my New Year’s plans.”   
  
“Really?” Jos said smugly, as though he had known it would end this way all along.   
  
“Oh yes,” Francis said sweet and low, stretching across the mattress, “How could I miss our debutant ball of debauchery? But, listen, darling, seeing as this will be my first New Year’s in Amsterdam, and I’ll be sacrificing my beloved night of too much alcohol and too many men to do your bidding, I do expect that you put me to good use.”   
  
Jos laughed, rich and deep, the sound of it reverberating in Francis’ ear, making him lick his lips and smile as Jos answered simply:   
  
“I promise.”   
  
~~~~~~   
  
Less than a week later, Jos was indeed living up to his promise as Francis swanned about the club, dressed in the tightest blue shirt he could find on such short notice, issuing orders to his overly excited troop of pornstars with as much patience and affection as he could muster, trying to look as calm and collected as possible as the music started thumping louder and louder and the clock ticked ever closer to the final midnight of the year.   
  
The dance floor was full of revelers who were full of booze and enthusiasm for the the shimmy of Jens’ hips and the warm flirtation on offer from the cute American bartender and his hot but stern assistant. Francis darted in and out of the crowd, stopping to enchant and charm here and there, figuring that he could do his share of bringing in new business with only a tiny fraction of his not inconsiderable experience at working a room.   
  
He had not been gone from the screen so long that he didn’t still have throngs of admirers that called out to him even now, pleading for a dance or a smile, or daring to ask if he would consider a kiss. Heads turned and gossip hummed when he walked past, with his hips swaying in an invitation that every man in the room wanted to receive.   
  
The power of his attraction was thick in his veins, almost as heady as the heavy bass line and the crush of bodies, reminding him of the exhilaration of being so admired, so wanted. It was rejuvenating and reinvigorating, to feel this way again, to have so many hearts and minds fixated on him.   
  
Oh, but he had missed being the center of attention.   
  
And through it all, Francis knew he was the center of another’s attention, feeling the weight of Jos watching him, observing and considering it all from his post of authority at the Blue Tulip Photo Booth.   
  
Francis couldn’t remember the last time he had enjoyed himself so thoroughly, in spite of the deathly glares Gilbert and Lovino were giving him as they sulked at the bar, promising him a world of pain for so ruining their brothers and their New Year’s Eve if he dared to approach the bar.   
  
Fortunately for Francis, and most unfortunate for the uneasy alliance between the brothers Beilschmidt and Vargas, their plans of year end revenge and denial of alcohol were easily thwarted. Clearly, having never possessed such talents themselves, Gilbert and Lovino had forgotten that in all his many years, Francis had never wanted for someone to buy him a drink.   
  
He had just averted another potential disaster by reminding Feliks that it would be best if he refrained from grinding too obscenely with Feliciano until Lovino had consumed enough cocktails to prevent him from scaling the go-go platform, when one of the club’s charming cocktail waiters sidled up to him, pressing a drink into his hand.   
  
“From the blond, tall, guy down near the door,” The waiter explained with a knowing smile, nodding his head towards the end of the bar, where the Blue Tulip Photo Booth was in high demand.   
  
Francis smiled and met Jos’ gaze, bemused that his partner would take time from his hawk-like monitoring of DVD and subscription sales to do something so unexpectedly charming, smirking at the roll of Jos’ eyes as the crowds parted for him when he made his way towards his surly colleague.   
  
“How romantic,” Francis shouted over the music when he reached Jos’ side, “Buying me a drink as though we’re strangers meeting in a club.”   
  
Jos stared at him in disbelief, snorting as he said, “How ridiculous that you think I would do something so useless.”   
  
Francis frowned in confusion, surprised to feel a touch of disappointment that Jos hadn’t been interested in playing such a fun game, murmuring, “How silly of me,” before casting about the area for another suspect, “But who is my mysterious benefactor if not you?”   
  
Jos glared at him, waving his arm over the teeming dance floor as if to suggest that any one of the hundreds of men could be held responsible for the drink in Francis’ hand.   
  
Francis smirked and sipped his cocktail, needling Jos, “So true, my darling. It is nice to be so appreciated.”   
  
Jos’ glare darkened, amusing Francis deeply, making him want to tease out the possessiveness he could feel reaching for him in the annoyance in Jos’ eyes.   
  
He was about to shift in closer, to press his fingers under Jos’ shirt and tug him near, give him a taste of what everyone in the room wanted, when a cheerful voice interrupted all his thoughts:   
  
“I hope you are enjoying the drink.”   
  
Francis sighed and turned, prepared to smile kindly at his latest over zealous admirer, only to find a tall, commanding, man with hair of such a pale blond it seemed almost white and a kindly looking face that held gray eyes and a wide, welcoming smile.   
  
Francis smiled in return, momentarily intrigued by the man’s unusual appearance, the strange aura of confidence and control in his bearing, holding the glass up as a salute of thanks.   
  
“Wonderfully, thank you,” Francis said easily, watching the man’s reaction as he continued blithely, “I’m Francis.”   
  
The man smiled, touching one hand to the fine white scarf he had wound around his neck, fiddling with it as he said brightly, “I know everything about you, Francis Bonnefoy.”   
  
Francis hesitated, always leery of men who tried to insist on crossing such personal boundaries, shifting closer to Jos, who was watching the entire interaction with a moue of displeasure.   
  
“It seems rude that I should know so little about you then,” Francis demurred.   
  
“Ah,” the man nodded, apparently undeterred as he continued smiling, “But why should the great Francis Bonnefoy know about me, Ivan Braginsky?”   
  
The name rumbled through Francis’ memory, too familiar to be forgotten, until he finally recalled where he had heard it before, a vague recollection of a face and a film coming to mind.   
  
Tension loosening considerably, Francis stepped out of Jos’ casually protective circle, smiling warmly at Ivan, “Ivan Braginsky! Of course, I’ve seen some of your work in recent years. You’ve quite the burgeoning reputation among the Eastern European studios, last I heard.”   
  
“I am pleased that someone as talented and famous as yourself knows of me,” Ivan answered happily, stepping closer to Francis, “I’ve tried to emulate your wonderful skill in my own work. I have always wanted to be most like you.”   
  
Flattered, Francis touched a hand to Ivan’s wrist, laughing with false modesty, “A wretched ambition, I’m sure, my darling.”   
  
“Do not say that!” Ivan protested vehemently, “If I want to be the best, I must learn from the best.”   
  
Francis laughed, charmed by the earnest enthusiasm, despite Jos’ less than subtle huff of irritation from behind him, answering Ivan warmly, “If you insist, then I wish you luck in your pursuit.”   
  
“I am glad to hear that. This means you will think of letting me work for you, then?” Ivan said smoothly, startling both Francis and Jos as he continued, “I’ve come to Amsterdam for this reason alone.”   
  
“Hmm, you really do keep tabs on my movements, don’t you?” Francis said with amusement, preening a little to know that someone would go to such lengths just for the opportunity to work with him. The thrill of it churned with the waves of admiration still spilling out from the crowd and the weight of Jos’ wary, displeased glare.   
  
“It is nearly the New Year,” Jos reminded him sharply, pressing his hand to the small of Francis’ back and interrupting Francis’ careful consideration of the mysterious and strangely attractive man demanding to be let into their garden.   
  
Distracted by the slow drag of Jos’ fingers along the slope of his spine, Francis barely noticed the thunderous anger that flashed through Ivan’s eyes, blithely smiling at his biggest fan as he said, “Well, Ivan, generally I don’t take unsolicited applicants, but as I’ve had the benefit of seeing your work, perhaps you could come to the Studio later this week and we can have a lovely chat about your future. And now you shall have to forgive me, but duty calls.”   
  
Ivan’s obviously, almost childish, delight at such an invitation gratified Francis almost as much as the countless whispers and whistles that had followed him all night, so much so that he permitted Ivan to press a presumptuous kiss to his cheek as he murmured, “You will not regret it. Until then, Mr. Bonnefoy.”   
  
Francis watched as he turned and strode through the crowd, pushing through the sea of people as though it did not exist, holding Francis a captive audience for a moment more until his senses spiraled back towards the insistent grip at his waist, calling his attention back to Jos’ stony, unimpressed glare.   
  
“A productive way to end a magnificent year,” Francis said smoothly, leaning into the curve of Jos’ arm, letting it drape comfortably around his hips, “The Studio is the talk of the town, Feliciano and Ludwig have yet to be brother-napped, and I can tell by the lack of cowering that Antonio and Berwald have done swift business at your Photo Booth.”   
  
“And you’ve found a new sycophant,” Jos said coolly, “In a room full of idiot admirers.”   
  
Francis pouted at him, “Now, now. You can hardly fault me for that. My idiot admirers paid our way into this city and into this lovely party, my darling. Besides, uncovering this potential recruit didn’t cost the Studio anything, as Ivan sought us out. A mark of good judgment, I should think.”   
  
“Sought you out,” Jos clarified sharply, before shaking his head and continuing, “But as you say, this has been a very valuable year.”   
  
Francis smiled and nuzzled into Jos’ neck, feeling the irritated twitch of his jaw at the close contact, feeling as though nothing in this world touch him at this moment, “I am sure that the next will be even better. We’ll have it all, no doubt!”   
  
Jos said nothing, only tightened his hold on Francis’ waist, intimate and close.   
  
Francis stepped away, smiling playfully into Jos’ frown, threading their hands together and pulling him towards the door, suddenly desirous of being apart from the excitement and bustle of the revelers on the dance floor.   
  
“What are you doing?” Jos asked with collected curiosity as they tumbled out of the heat of the club into the cold night air, allowing Francis to drag him down a dirty Amsterdam alley.   
  
“What else, my sweet, but preparing to ring in our New Year?” Francis said happily as they spilled from the alley to join the throngs of people lining the Amstel River waiting for the city sky to light with fireworks.   
  
Jos crowded against his back, leaning down to ask, “Abandoning your fans?”   
  
Francis settled against his warmth, tilting his head up to meet Jos’ bemused gaze, answering prettily, “Its our party and I’ll leave if I want to.”   
  
Jos shook his head, lips daring to shift into a smile as Francis flirted with him, dragging Jos’ arms around his waist and twining their fingers.   
  
The whole of the city seemed to come alive with one voice, excitedly counting down from twenty in loud, happy Dutch as Francis turned within Jos’ embrace, framing his strong, familiar jaw within the cool bracket of his fingers and murmured, “Besides, I prefer the beauty of Amsterdam for my New Year’s kiss.”   
  
Jos smirked at him as the countdown dwindled to ten, repeating the same words he said all those months ago when they first started playing this wonderful game, “You seem very certain.”   
  
Francis smiled hotly, leaning in close enough to brush Jos’ mouth with his lips, “I know a good bet when I see one, my darling.”   
  
And as the numbers fell away into cheers and joyous shouts, the old Amsterdam sky lit bright with the colors of hope and celebration, Francis welcomed the new year with Jos’ sweet, satisfied kiss, ready for all that their future would hold.


	7. "Russia"

The knock at the door could not have come at more inconvenient time, Francis thought with a heavy sigh as he clicked “Save” and tried to make his voice as pleasant as possible as he bid his interrupter to enter. It was so difficult to find time to let loose the perversions of his creative mind with a constant stream of needy stars and demanding colleagues continually craving a piece of his time. Why, he’d only just finished the opening dialogue for _From Russia with Lust_ , and now he was to be distracted again.   
  
A measure of his irritation faded at the sight of Ivan’s smiling, increasingly familiar face poking through the now open door before his large body shuffled over the threshold and promptly closed the office off once more from the chaos of the Blue Tulip on a Monday morning.   
  
With half his attention still on the script tempting him from his monitor, Francis smiled distractedly and waved Ivan over as he said warmly, “Ivan. What an unexpected surprise! What brings you to my office today?”   
  
Francis wondered what reason Ivan would concoct for his visit this time, amused and flattered by his newest employee’s seemingly endless interest in spending time with him. In the three weeks since their first not so serendipitous meeting at the Blue Tulip New Year’s bash, Ivan had become a frequent guest on his comfortable couch, bringing questions, conversations, and no shortage of adulation.   
  
To Francis’ surprise, Ivan broke his rather new routine, settling in the sturdy chairs in front of the desk with an air of frustrated despondency, even though his face still smiled.   
  
“I thought perhaps you might be sick,” Ivan said with uncharacteristic seriousness, gray eyes staring at   
Francis with concern and some deeper emotion that Francis could not quite discern through his puzzlement at such a strange claim, knowing that Ivan had seen him alive and well just that morning as they discussed Francis’ early work in Parisian burlesque clubs over coffee and a stroopwafel.   
  
“I’m perfectly well,” Francis said gently, pulling his reading glasses from his face to peer at Ivan, “Whatever made you think I would be ill?”   
  
“You did not come to my shoot,” Ivan intoned so gravely that Francis could not help but laugh, curbing his fond amusement only at the sight of Ivan’s growing consternation.   
  
“Oh, my dearest,” Francis said through his dwindling laughter, shaking his head as his strange but alluring Russian, “I am sorry, but I cannot possibly attend all the scenes that we film. I have an endless to-do list of chores to keep the Tulip in full bloom.”   
  
“But how will I know if I am doing as I should be, as you would do it, if you do not direct me?” Ivan pushed, amusing Francis with the weight he placed on the importance of Francis’ approval. In all his years, Francis was almost certain he had never had someone pursue him with such obvious, open zeal for something as mundane was wanting to emulate an idol.   
  
He wondered what Ivan hoped to get out of such a imitation of the star that was Francis Bonnefoy, intrigued by this man with the gray eyes and the smile that seemed to hide nothing and everything at once, knowing that even so fine a fixation was doubtless only a small part of a larger purpose that was known to Ivan alone.   
  
Francis did so enjoy secrets, particularly when they came wrapped in such oddly charming and potentially useful packages.   
  
“You are doing fine,” Francis teased sternly, “As you well know. I believe we discussed the download numbers for your first two solos last week over lunch.”   
  
It was certainly true that Ivan’s numbers had been good, Francis mused as his eyes flicked back to the blinking cursor on the screen, barely acknowledging Ivan’s resigned hum of agreement. Surprisingly good.. Good enough even to overcome Jos’ uncharacteristic questioning of his judgment regarding Ivan’s hire. Apparently the power of money still remained enough to quiet Jos’ annoyance with Ivan’s curiously strong interest and investment in all things Francis.   
  
Ivan nodded solemnly, though only a small measure of his normal good cheer returned, proving that unlike Jos he did not take quite as much comfort in fiscal productivity. There was something else he sought.   
  
Francis huffed and wagged his finger, “For goodness sake, will it make you feel better if I assure you that I approve all final edits before they are released, that I have in fact seen all of the work you’ve given us so readily in your brief but productive time with the Tulip?”   
  
Francis paused, thinking of the last clip of Ivan he had seen. It was almost an exact replica of a video he had shot many years ago but for some untenable quality of fractured control in his performance that Francis believed had an appeal all of its own. It was as though Ivan had attempted to sketch his likeness in fine detail only to be unable to keep all the lines from smudging and blurring, creating something that looked familiar but felt entirely new and mysterious. He had yet to determine exactly how best to utilize and exploit such unpredictability to his fullest advantage, intending to use Ivan’s apparently slavish devotion to imitation to try and ascertain his motivations, flattered and curious enough to ignore the unsettling something he occasionally saw in the smiling coldness of Ivan’s eyes.   
  
Hoping to reassure his agitated inquisitor, Francis softened his tone as he placated, “Though I was unable to witness your work in person this morning, never fear, I will certainly watch the tape this evening. I have every confidence that this shoot will be as exquisite and unique as the last.”   
  
The sunshine returned to Ivan’s demeanor, rendering him once more affable and seemingly harmless, for all that Francis suspected there was much that lay dormant and unrevealed beneath Ivan’s smiles and unusual charm.   
  
“Ah, that is a relief,” Ivan said brightly, capturing Francis with the intensity of his regard, “I would not want to disappoint you, Francis. As you are the best, I, too, want to be the best.”   
  
“My darling, you shouldn’t worry so unnecessarily,” Francis said airily, unable to resist the sweetness of Ivan’s honeyed declarations, “In fact, I am so entirely charmed by your talent that I was busy writing your first shared scene when you decided to pay me such a lovely visit.”   
  
“And will you be writing yourself in as my co-star?” Ivan asked with such serious sincerity that Francis could not even laugh his way out of his astonishment, entirely taken aback by such a request.   
  
Surely a man who had his entire film catalog memorized, who had known enough to seek him out in Amsterdam and buy his favorite drink would know that Francis, the once great rose of Rose of La Moulin and Jos’ first Tulip, had retired from the glories of the screen.   
  
Francis shook his head, lips pursed around his confusion as he stared at Ivan, “I’m afraid that I’m no longer performing, dearest. I’m strictly behind the words and the camera now. My days of stardom are but for the annals of history and the X-rated shelves.”   
  
Ivan’s smile did not waver, but his voice was rich with tempered disappointment, “Yes, I had heard such rumors but I could not believe it to be true. I had hoped to be able to share the screen at least once with the emperor of seduction.”   
  
Francis snorted with laughter, vanity and pride tickled by such a ridiculous and lovely epithet, weakly protesting the praise, “Emperor of seduction, really, you give me too credit.”   
  
“I am certain I could not give you enough,” Ivan insisted with an ever growing grin, spreading his hands out before him and shrugging his shoulders, “Can I not persuade you to come out of retirement?”   
  
For a brief second, Francis indulged in fantasizing how fleetingly gratifying it would be to adored and desired by so many once more, to show all the young up-starts in his care how many miles they had to climb before they could even dream of taking his star from the sky. He could not deny that he missed the attention, the surety of knowing his own attraction, but Francis had thought that within the walls of the Blue Tulip he had found something far more satisfying and challenging.   
  
“Alas, I am quite satisfied in my decision, my darling,” Francis said with a wink, pleasantly bemused by Ivan’s persistence but ready to return to his always lengthy to-do list as he tapped his fingers against the keyboard, continuing, “And you shall have to be satisfied to be my actor instead of my co-star, my colleague instead of my cohort!”   
  
Ivan clapped his hands over his knees, “Of course, I am certain this will be very fine, starring in one of your films. Perhaps I will learn the art of crafting seduction from you as well.”   
  
“Now, now, if you do all that, how shall I make my living?” Francis teased playfully, unwilling to deny himself the pleasure of having such an eager student, particularly one who was such a fine counterpoint to the overly-confident and cocksure Dane who was so certain he knew it all and needed none of Francis’ helpful expert advice.   
  
A rapid fire rapping at the door interrupted whatever platitude Ivan was doubtless about to offer as Francis’ attention was entirely diverted by the sudden and unusual appearance of Jos within his office, looking as cool and vaguely irked as ever. Francis stifled a sigh as he noticed the tightening of Jos’ jaw at the sight of Ivan, feeling far too laden down with work to deal with yet another clipped and terse conversation about the merits of putting too much stock in a man who seemed to only wish to put stock in Francis and not in the company.   
  
If only Jos would trust him to know what he was about, Francis had thought with ever increasing irritation after each discussion, so certain that with enough time he could conquer and convert this fixation of Ivan’s all to the benefit of the company. Given that Jos had so far acquiesced, albeit with reservations, to his insistence, Francis believed that the situation remained well in hand, that Ivan could well be rare resource ready for careful cultivation.   
  
“Well, now, this is the afternoon for visitors it would seem! How can I be of assistance to our lord and master?” Francis purred with a smirk, never entirely above taking some delight in Jos’ irritation, too enamored of the way his throat moved when he attempted to swallow a scathing reply in deference to professionalism, such as it was in a porn studio.   
  
“I need to speak with you,” Jos said flatly, clearly unamused by Francis’ easy flirtation and even less amused to find someone else taking up the time he seemed to want right then and there.   
  
“Of course,” Francis said easily even as his fingers reluctantly closed the window on his computer. His Imperial Russian masterpiece of debauchery would have to wait for another afternoon. He turned to smile at Ivan, “Perhaps we can continue our chat at another time, Ivan?”   
  
Ivan stood without hesitation, smiling widely at Francis, teeth showing behind the pull of his lips, “I look forward to it. We shall meet again at our shoot.”   
  
With that, Ivan swept from the room, scarf trailing behind him as he stepped passed Jos without a glance, offering Francis one last wave before he disappeared into the hallway, leaving Francis with a handful of flattery, an unfinished script, and a business partner eying him with cold suspicion.   
  
“Our shoot?” Jos said disdainfully as he shut the door behind Ivan and settled in his recently vacated chair.   
  
“Oh, he means the next time I direct him,” Francis said dismissively before muttering under his breath, “Heavens only know when that will be as my  _From Russia with Lust_  continues to languish.”   
  
“I see,” Jos said skeptically, expression placid, though the tension in his shoulders betrayed his discomfort with Francis' determination to solidify Ivan’s permanence in their world.   
  
Francis laughed and leaned forward conspiratorially, “Though I must confess, my darling, Ivan did cherish hopes that he and I would have the opportunity to know each other in the Biblical sense for a live studio audience.”   
  
Jos looked totally unsurprised, and to Francis’ disappointment, entirely unamused by such a humorous revelation, his voice cold and flat as he said, “Of course he did. And your answer?”   
  
Francis stared at Jos for a long moment, trying to ascertain whether or not Jos truly harbored doubts as to his decision to remain firmly off-camera, if he had some inkling of Francis' occasional longing for more obvious appreciation, sighing, “I told him no, naturally. I am afraid that I would need a very compelling reason to give up my well earned retirement.”   
  
Jos nodded, the wrinkle of his forehead giving away his contemplative mood, piquing Francis’ curiosity as to what was going on behind the pale chill of his gaze.   
  
“Besides,” Francis flirted, tracing a finger over his lips, hoping to distract Jos out of his brooding mood, “I would much rather have sex for pleasure these days. So much more fulfilling, don’t you think?”   
  
Jos snorted, “As I’ve never had sex for pay, I couldn’t tell you.”   
  
“Such lies, my darling,” Francis said with dark amusement, “While you may never have drawn a paycheck for dropping your pants, you are most certainly not above using sex for profit or power. Or had you forgotten how it was you attempted to lure me into your trap?”   
  
Jos favored with him a hot, low look that told Francis that he remembered with perfect, searing clarity exactly how it had begun between them, that he had memorized every move in their ever evolving game.   
  
“Mmm, I thought as much,” Francis said sweetly, pushing out from his chair to circle in front of the desk, thinking of New York afternoons as he stood in front of Jos and murmured, “And I should like to think that we’ve had our share of pleasure as well.”   
  
Jos peered up at him, inscrutable and lovely, lips pursed in a now familiar expression of agreement and enjoyment, giving Francis only the barest of nods in acknowledgement.   
  
Francis smirked and leaned against his desk, “And so, my dove, which do you prefer...pleasure or profit?”   
  
Francis watched as Jos considered, unsurprised that such a man would take such this trifling seduction so seriously, only to be taken aback when Jos asked something he had not quite expected:   
  
“Would you star in another film if the Blue Tulip needed you?”   
  
Startled, Francis turned his eyes away, wondering if perhaps what Jos had really meant to ask was “ _Would you do it if I needed you?”_ He wondered if the two were perhaps inseparable in Jos’ mind.   
  
It startled him even more to realize that regardless of intent, his  answer was so quickly, so assuredly  _yes_ .   
  
Equivocating, unwilling to give away so much of his hand, Francis smiled lightly and tutted at Jos, “As I said, I would require a very compelling reason.”   
  
Jos’ eyes were bright and hard, his voice firm as he replied, “As though I would waste my time with anything less.”   
  
Francis laughed and found himself astonished to be flushing with pleasure from the strange intimacy of such a declaration. Though it rankled a bit that Jos felt the need to push Francis on his own dedication to the Tulip, he smiled warmly and leaned forward to meet the intensity of Jos’ stare, assuring him softly, “Yes, of course I would. If it was needed, there is very little I would not do for the Blue Tulip.”   
  
And when Jos smiled with faint satisfaction and touched that same smile to Francis’ warm and welcoming lips, it felt as though their original contract had been renegotiated, that the terms agreed to in a calculated moment of passion more than a year ago had been so greatly expanded that Francis could hardly fathom that it would ever be possible to be released from such sweet stipulations.   
  
He hummed with pleasure into the kiss, trying to remember how long it had been since they had touched, too many days lost in a flurry of post-holiday activity and a blur of Ivan’s seeming ubiquity. With heat flared in his chest and the first sparks of lust coming to life under his skin, Francis knew that although these carnal meetings had always been infrequent at best, the hunger between them told him it had been too long, far too long.   
  
Jos deepened the embrace, kissing him with something that bordered on the unrestrained for a brief, wonderful moment, before releasing Francis to lick his lips and settle in his chair, composed and contained once more.   
  
“I prefer both,” Jos declared coolly, causing Francis to arch an eyebrow in confusion, uncertain why they were no longer kissing.   
  
Jos smirked and reached into his pocket for his smokes, offering one to Francis before taking one for himself, murmuring as he lit up, “Profit and pleasure.”   
  
Francis rolled his eyes fondly, leaning forward to accept a light, “Mmm, yes, I suppose that is best, though it is difficult to maintain such a delicate balance.”   
  
“We’ll see,” Jos said cryptically, taking a long drag and eying Francis through the smoke curling around his face.   
  
The room fell into comfortable silence as they smoked and Francis tried to parse through all the richness he was certain Jos had laid subtly laid before him, delighted as ever by the barely revealed shades of Jos’ intentions.   
  
Halfway through the cigarette, bored already of the taste when it wasn’t on Jos’ tongue, Francis put it out and asked, “I assume you came here for some other reason than ascertaining my desire to do more porn?”   
  
“Right,” Jos said with unusual distraction, pausing for a moment before clearing his throat and continuing, “I’m intending to make an offer on a new flat this afternoon.”   
  
Francis frowned, disliking how many times Jos had managed to surprise him one day, feeling distinctly off-kilter, “I wasn’t aware you were in the market for a new place to live.”   
  
“You’ve been rather distracted, then,” Jos said coolly, the rebuke Francis imagined he heard in his tone prickling under his skin, “But that’s irrelevant. I want you to come with me this afternoon to see the space and meet the agent.”   
  
Bemused and intrigued, Francis let go of his momentary irritation, asking lightly, “Me? Wouldn’t your sister be more suited for such a request?”   
  
Jos scowled and looked away, grumbling darkly, “Veronika is being annoying.”   
  
Francis stifled the urge to laugh, having very little difficultly imagining how exactly Veronika would needle and prod her stiff, stoic brother after the revelations of the Christmas Eve debacle, slightly touched that she would find it necessary to goad her brother into more traditional forms of intimacy with someone as reprobate as he.   
  
“Anyways, it is your presence I require,” Jos said swiftly and firmly, glaring into the face of Francis’ badly disguised amusement.   
  
“Oh?” Francis demurred, trying to figure out exactly what it was Jos wanted of him, smirking as he remembered how pleased Jos had been with the sudden reduction in purchasing price of the Studio after Francis had spent a very congenial hour with the real estate agent.   
  
“Of course, my darling, I’ll be happy to join you and use my wiles on your unsuspecting prey to secure you a better price,” Francis said with a laugh, always happy to have his skills so appreciated.   
  
“Who said I want such a thing,” Jos responded coolly, looking away, “Perhaps I just value your opinion?”   
  
“Well, my opinion certainly is valuable,” Francis purred, winking at Jos, “But unless I’m to live there, I can hardly believe that is all you want of me.”   
  
Jos said nothing while Francis bid one last farewell to his precious script for the day and shut down the computer, waiting until Francis was smiling at him once more before remarking dryly, “As you insist, of course.”   
  
“Well, then, my liege shall we go see to new your new castle?” Francis asked, tickled when Jos moved to fetch his coat from the back of the door, holding it out for him.   
  
Francis smiled and enjoyed the lingering press of Jos against his back as he slid his arms through the sleeves, closing his eyes and tilting his head as Jos murmured into his ear, “Do try not to sleep with the agent.”   
  
“Whatever makes you think I would do something like that?” Francis said lowly, leaning into the possessive shape of Jos’ embrace, warming to the familiar tease.   
  
“Because I know who you are,” Jos breathed out over his neck, one hand sliding over his stomach, holding him lightly.   
  
Francis shuddered, aroused and appalled by the conviction in the words whispered over his skin, lacing his fingers through Jos’ and turning his face to brush his lips over a steady pulse, taking pleasure in the way it jumped at his touch.   
  
“Is that a promise or a threat?” Francis murmured into the warm curve of Jos’ throat, allowing himself to be turned within the circle of Jos’ arms, opening his eyes to revel in the cool affection of Jos’ gaze and the taunting challenge of his answer.   
  
“Both.”   
  
Francis shook his head and leaned up to whisper against Jos’ mouth, “Never satisfied with just one, are you, my darling?”   
  
“It hasn’t failed me yet,” Jos said simply before leaning down to kiss Francis once more.   
  
Francis sighed and gave himself over entirely to the lingering, languid embrace that he could only hope was both a promise and a threat of more to come once deeds had been signed and the day was over, and there were no more actors to be assuaged, nor words to be written, just the two of them alone.   
  
Francis always had been more interested in pleasure.

 

 

 

“Oh, I am sorry, my darling, but even if you had wanted me to, there is no possible way I could sleep with the real estate agent,” Francis murmured behind his hand, trying to cover up his amusement as they followed the dour, rumpled man with a demeanor of a wet rag dipped in vinegar up the stairs. When they had arrived, Francis’ first hope had been that the apartment was more attractive than the agent, something that must have shown in his expression judging by the exasperated rolling of Jos’ eyes and the insistent hand at his back, ushering him forwards towards both house and host.    
  
The agent, one Mr. Smit, had been summarily unimpressed by Francis’ best effusive and flirtatious greeting, though his eyes did linger for a moment longer than necessary on the less than professional amount of space between his body and Jos’, leading Francis to suspect that there was something deliciously deviant going on beneath the frown and fop. There always was a weakness to exploit, no matter how dull the exterior, and Francis was determined to find the button that would make this sour faced man his biggest fan and subsequently offer his favorite Dutchman favorable terms.    
  
“But I thought you would do almost anything to help,” Jos teased dryly, making Francis smirk and jostle him with his hip as they waited for the agent to unlock the door to the flat.    
  
Francis fluttered his eyelashes and purred mockingly, “For the Blue Tulip, darling, not for you. There are limits to my affection.”    
  
“How disappointing,” Jos said with a slow shake of his head, lips quirking when the agent turned to them and gestured them inside with perfunctory politeness, though Francis did not fail to notice the way his gaze lingered on the long lines of Jos’ legs as they crossed into the hallway. He could hardly fault Mr. Smit for his excellent taste in legs and found himself equally pleased to be on the receiving end of his own not terribly subtle glance of appreciation as brushed past the bedraggled agent.    
  
Francis airily waved a hand, tossing out over his shoulder while strolling inside, “Don’t worry, I shall endeavor to make it up to you.”    
  
Jos shoved his hands in his pockets and grumbled, “Not necessary. Just tell me what you think of the place.”    
  
Francis smiled, amused and flattered by Jos’ insistence his company and consideration was all he wanted, “Certainly, darling, since you asked me all this way merely for the gift of my opinion. Perhaps you might consider giving me the grand tour?”   
  
Jos scowled and stepped aside, gesturing impatiently towards the living room, frown lines deepening when Francis gave him a saucy wink intended to rile and started cooing over the stainless steel kitchen fixtures and asking if Jos would allow him to sully their virgin perfection with his dirty fingers.    
  
The apartment was larger than he expected, two bedrooms and a full bath, with a living room that had lovely views of an interior courtyard, and beyond one Amsterdam’s many canal streets, perfectly charming in its empty austerity waiting to be filled. It flooded him with quiet delight to watch Jos watching him as he strolled over the marble floors and peered out the windows, smiling at the bustle of the streets below.   
  
Though the flat was quite lovely, modern and clean, and well suited to what Francis imagined to be Jos’ domestic tastes, he could not help but keep half an eye on the way in which Mr. Smit seemed to hover constantly on the periphery, offering very little commentary beyond bland explanations of square meters or the cost of heating in the winter, staying mostly silent as Jos steered Francis around the corners of the apartment, murmuring lowly to him about his plans for each space.    
  
While inspecting the storage space in the master bedroom’s two closets with Jos skulking behind him, Francis wondered at the changes a year had wrought, remembering the austerity of Jos’ apartment in Paris and a calculated seduction. And now here he was, looking at shelves in Amsterdam, trying to reasonably answer Jos’ perfectly sensible question as to how large of a rug he would recommend purchasing to keep the marble floors unscratched by his bed.    
  
“Tell me, my sweet,” Francis said as he stretched on his toes to ascertain the depth of the top shelf, “Any particular impetus for this house hunting venture?”    
  
He felt Jos lean over his shoulder to conduct his own inspection of Francis’ inspection, pressed lightly against his back as he answered peaceably, “A matter of practicality and timing. My lease is up on the apartment I rented when we first moved from Paris. Its been a good year. Business is strong and our projections are healthy. I see no reason not to purchase.”    
  
Francis nodded, settling back on his feet and shuffling away to poke under the sink in the master bath, pleasantly surprised by the substantial tub and shower, amused that Jos would favor such luxuries, mumbling under his breath, “And so we build our own Tower of Babel.”   
  
“What?” Jos said sharply, crouching next to Francis, who shook his head and smiled innocently, swiftly covering his tracks and his constant delight in Jos’ secret indulgences:   
  
“Mmm, I suppose you would want to make a home in Amsterdam.”   
  
“And you? Have you considered buying?” Jos asked quietly, gaze inscrutable as Francis stood once more and paced the length of the bathroom, running his hands over the beautiful sink, appreciating its understated modernity.    
  
“Me?” Francis mused distractedly, looking at his reflection in the mirror, wondering why Jos had failed to tell him that he had managed to mark his neck with black pen, “I’ve always been more of a renter. In my early days I moved with alarming and annoying regularity. The industry favored those who were flexible,” he smirked at himself as he dragged a finger through the ink stain, “In more ways than one. So I’ve never been much for thinking of permanence.”   
  
Jos considered him in the mirror, cold eyes alert and interested, fingers flexing on the vanity as he said, “But as you’ve said, you’re retired now.”   
  
Francis smiled at him, shifting closer, stifling a sigh when he noticed Mr. Smit lurking in the bedroom, pretending not to watch them watching each other.    
  
Jos frowned and favored him with an ill look, grumbling with false irritation, “Unless you’re considering a renaissance with the Russian.”    
  
“Certainly not, my dear,” Francis scoffed, winking lewdly and turning away from their reflections, “Every body knows one does not attempt a Russian campaign in the depths of winter.”    
  
“True,” Jos said dryly before his mouth tightened and his voice went low, “And I have my doubts regarding this particular venture ending well.”   
  
Francis sighed and tried to tamp down on his sudden impatience with the subject, uninterested in revisiting the subject of Ivan. Ivan, who seemed to follow him everywhere he went, even into unfamiliar and lovely bathrooms in Amsterdam. And Jos who would not trust him to keep Ivan in hand, to exploit the richness he was certain could be corralled and controlled so long as Ivan remained so besotted.    
  
“And so you think I ought to make the real estate market my next conquest?” Francis asked lightly, covering Jos’ hand with his own, attempting to distract him from the worry forming in the wrinkles of his forehead with talk of money and the temptation of touch.    
  
Jos eyed him guardedly, gaze so hard and bright that Francis wanted to have it on him all afternoon, attempting to burn away his secrets. He wondered how he could have forgotten how Jos warmed to the thrill of property and the chance of ownership, even if not for himself.    
  
Jos cleared his throat, speaking softly and coolly, “Real estate is almost always a good investment. Especially now, when prices are low, if you have any intention of staying in Amsterdam for some years, you may be able to make a decent profit in the future.”    
  
Francis smiled prettily and stroked his fingers over Jos’ now upturned palm, peering subtly around his broad shoulders to see if they still had an audience, bemused that Mr. Smit could try and fail so spectacularly to appear uninterested.  Francis did enjoy an obvious voyeur, they were terribly easy to lead round by the pants.    
  
“Well, I’ve no plans to be anywhere other than here,” Francis said happily, looking around the brightly lit bathroom before pursing his lips and murmuring, “Metaphorically speaking of course.”    
  
Jos snorted with amusement, “In that case, I’ll withdraw my offer.”    
  
Francis smirked dangerously, pitching his voice so he was certain his favorite peeping tom could hear him, reaching for Jos as he said, “Come here, you wretched man.”   
  
Jos looked at him skeptically but stepped closer anyways, delighting Francis with his ready acquiescence, making it even less than the chore it never was to press his lips to Jos’ beautiful and scornful mouth, kissing him deeply.    
  
He felt Jos frown in confusion when he moaned theatrically and embraced Jos with a fervency that an interlude in the loo hardly required, wholeheartedly amused to be so unexpectedly performing for an audience once more, hoping that this impromptu scene would be as successful in wooing the crowd out of their hard earned money as ever.    
  
When Francis heard the quiet gasp and shameless shuffling of feet drawing nearer, he pulled away with a loud sigh, licking his lips dramatically and feigning sudden embarrassment when he pretended to discover Mr. Smit staring at them both in the mirror.    
  
Disentangling himself from Jos’ arms with more effort than was necessary, ignoring the light of understanding in Jos’ knowing and desperately alluring gaze, Francis fawned at Mr. Smit apologetically, “Oh, my, I am so sorry, Mr. Smit! Buying property together! Oh, its too wonderful and I simply got carried away!”   
  
Mr. Smit shook his head and grumbled something that Francis interpreted as his own disappointment at having been caught and therefore having his free show interrupted.    
  
Jos was now looking at him with such genuine amusement and interest that Francis thought he even spied the beginnings of a grin, prompting him to chew the scenery with zeal.    
  
He touched one palm to the his liar’s blush, thickening his accent as he laughed shyly and reached out with the other hand to grasp Mr. Smit’s wrist, “I get so swept up in the romance of it all that I just cannot help but want to kiss him breathless in every room! Poor Mr. van Rijn is forever imploring me to keep my hands to myself, but I am afraid I lack all self-control!”    
  
Jos shook his head and pinched Francis before turning to face Mr. Smit, voice grave and stern as he intoned, “I apologize for the trouble. But perhaps you could retrieve the final contract for my review?”    
  
Francis bit his lip to keep from laughing at the poorly concealed frustration on Mr. Smit’s face at being asked to leave what to him must have been a very promising scene, taking both pity on and advantage of him as he wiped the smugness from Jos’ expression with an enthusiastic exclamation of, “Oh, my darling, do you mean that? You’re going to buy it?!” followed by an equally impressive and determined kiss replete with tongue and obscene little wriggles of exaggerated pleasure.    
  
When he heard Mr. Smit finally tear himself away, stumbling from the room in what Francis hoped was his haste to reward Jos with a much lower mortgage rate, Francis allowed himself to smile and laugh against Jos’ bemused smirk.    
  
“What was that for?” Jos asked calmly when Francis deigned to release him, as though he was perfectly ignorant of exactly what Francis had been doing.    
  
Francis smiled sweetly, ready to keep stringing out the fun of this latest game as he answered innocently, “Can I not just want to kiss you?”    
  
Jos eyed him dispassionately, responding lowly, “You certainly may.”    
  
Francis laughed wickedly, pressing a kiss to Jos’ throat and murmuring threateningly, “Oh, really? While I may have been exploiting your dear realtor’s prurient interest in voyeurism in the hopes of so addling his mind with lust that he cannot properly adjust your interest rate, I will remember to take advantage of such permissions, my darling.”    
  
“Take advantage later,” Jos said firmly though his eyes shone with that rare calculating appreciation that Francis craved like rich red wine.   
  
Francis smirked and pushed away from the sink, “Profit before pleasure?”    
  
Jos grabbed his wrist, favoring him with a startlingly hot look before kissing him hard and fast, rousing his lust more fully with the brief, bruising touch of his fingers than any of the pretended passion of moments before, making him yearn for  later for the second time that afternoon.    
  
Francis sighed in earnest when Jos dropped his hand and their kiss, wondering when he had become so susceptible to such attacks.    
  
Jos turned and started walking away, the sound of his heels on the empty marble floors of his future bedroom nearly muffling his words as he called out over his shoulder, “You’ve proven valuable at delivering both.”    
  
Francis smiled at his flushed and happy reflection, brushing one finger over the redness of his mouth as he shouted in response, “May our joint efforts prove as successful as always!”    
  
~~~~~~   
  
Though he was worn out from a day of work, followed by an afternoon of surprises and an evening of watching Jos take far too much joy from negotiating every last term of the deed to his new house, Francis knew he would never be too exhausted to say yes to the rare, unexpected opportunity to see the inside of Jos’ current home, accepting with alacrity when his dear partner offered him coffee with his finest Dutch sensibilities.    
  
He was content to bask in Jos’s soft smugness at having wrangled himself such a lovely home at an almost unconscionable price, pleased to have been able to play even a small part in securing something that brought Jos such satisfaction and oddly flattered to have been included in the process. And so, Francis smiled and leaned against the doorjamb as Jos fiddled with the lock to an apartment in a much older and plainer building that he strongly suspected appealed to Jos only because of its relative proximity to the Studios and Centraal Station.    
  
“So, you approve of the new apartment?” Jos asked as the lock finally clicked open, pushing the door wide and striding in ahead of Francis, leaving him to trail in his wake into the darkness of the entryway.    
  
“Of course, I wouldn’t have bothered giving the old man a cheap thrill if I did not,” Francis responded warmly, blinking into the sudden brightness of the lights, startling when Jos made to pull the coat from his shoulders.   
  
“Not a very cheap thrill,” Jos scoffed as he hung the coat, “That stunt may have saved me several thousand euros.”    
  
Already wandering into the living room, Francis smiled and called over his shoulder, “Well, it was for a very worthy cause!”    
  
He paused, standing in the midst of a room only slightly less barren than that of the apartment Jos kept in Paris, shaking his head before noticing one bookshelf laden with management tomes and autobiographies of entrepreneurs, smiling softly as he recognized Veronika’s happy visage and Kiku’s handsome face in the framed photos. He touched his fingers gently to a stack of Blue Tulip DVDs, charmed by Jos’ unexpected streak of sentimentality.    
  
Francis turned to find Jos watching him from the couch with hooded and distant eyes that urged him to come nearer. Moving closer, he said smartly, “Though I do hope you do your new home the honor of a design theme more complex than...clean and almost empty.”    
  
Jos frowned, shifting to make space for Francis on the couch, grumbling “I’ve never had much use for such things.”    
  
France laughed and settled one hand over the tension in Jos’ thigh, squeezing gently as he assured his poor, helpless partner, “How fortunate for you, then, that you are now surrounded by a bevy of creative types ready to assist you with such useless endeavors.”   
  
“Oh?” Jos breathed out, the line of his jaw sharp and dangerous, “And what will that cost me?”    
  
Francis smiled, low and hot, pressing one hand to Jos’ chest and urging him down amongst the dull, gray cushions of his couch, climbing over the wonderful breadth of his chest and murmuring, “For you, my darling, I am certain we can come to a mutually agreeable arrangement.”    
  
“I see,” Jos said with quiet amusement before Francis decided that there had never been a better time to exercise the new privileges that had been granted to him earlier that afternoon.   
  
With pleasure, he indulged in kissing Jos softly and slowly, parting his lips as though he had all the time in the world to run his hands through Jos’ hair and make his cock stir at length beneath him. He made no movement to touch him anywhere that his mouth could not reach, wanting to stay flush and warm against the lazy welcome of Jos’ body spread beneath him, rewarding the end of a long day with even longer, lengthier kisses, playful and quietly passionate, with no other intent but to please and be pleased in return.    
  
The room was quiet and Francis could feel the tiredness waiting beneath the sweet thickness of his desire, but he could find no reason to rush this moment, to think of anything but how wonderful it was to find that Jos appeared to be in no great rush to do more than let Francis sigh into his mouth and trace the curve of his ear with his lips as he teased him with outlandish decorating tips for his new apartment and little whispers about the proclivities of Mr. Smit.    
  
It felt nearly impossible that he would ever enjoy anything more than the intimacy of feeling Jos’ reluctant, hard-won laughter rumbling beneath his chest and the rush of his breath over his cheek when Francis smiled and kissed him once more.    
  
Eventually, when his lips were swollen and slick from Jos’ kiss and his own hips were rising and falling in time with the gentle roll of Jos’ body, Francis gave into the urgency he could feel in the tightening of Jos’ fingers as they swept up and down his back, pulling at his shirt and dipping beneath his pants, breaking away from the luxury of their meandering embrace to whisper:    
  
“May I presume to ask to take you to bed in your own home?”    
  
“You may,” Jos said dryly, already leveraging them both from the couch, rolling his eyes when Francis smirked and laced their hands together, declaring happily:   
  
“You’re being very permissive today, my darling! I’m quite swept off of my feet!”    
  
Jos said nothing, only shook his head and pulled Francis more quickly down the short hallway, not even bothering to turn on the light in what was doubtless another sadly bare bedroom before divesting Francis of his shirt and his ability to speak.    
  
Francis thrilled to the unexpected possessive heat in the kiss, more than ready to let Jos take charge of their most secret dance for once, letting loose a filthy moan when Jos dipped him slowly onto the bed and carefully pulled off the remainder of their clothes as though he refused to go any longer without Francis naked and ready before him.    
  
“Or you can take me to bed,” Francis panted lasciviously, spreading his legs without hesitation as Jos pushed between them to grasp his chin between his broad palms and lick over the fullness of his bottom lip and slide their chests together in that blessed first touch of skin on skin that Francis prayed would never grow tiresome for as long as he lived and breathed.   
  
As Jos stroked his cock and sucked at the hollow of his throat, Francis wondered hazily what new devilry was driving Jos, wondering how he could find out what button he was to push whenever he wanted Jos like this, insistent in his desire, wresting control from Francis and going on the offensive.    
  
Never one to forgo a delicacy, Francis smiled into Jos’ hair and arched his back wantonly into the clutch of Jos’s fingers around his cock and across his throat, strangely gentle as they commandeered his lust. With his hands he traced the long planes of Jos’s back and reveled in the body’s inability to lie, revealing his own secrets to match the trembling of Jos’s arms when he kissed the scar on his forehead and murmured his name.    
  
With a sigh, Francis let himself be turned to his side, titling his neck to allow for the hot, searching press of Jos’ kiss and spreading his knees to welcome the slide of Jos’ leg between his own and the quick, slick feeling of fingers slipping inside him.    
  
Tangled like this, there could be nothing but a slow rolling, an intimate building of tension winding its way up his limbs, poisoned sweetness that had Francis sighing and urging Jos further and further on, tempting him to give into the burn of their lust.    
  
And when Jos’ hand splayed across his stomach, fingers brushing lightly over his skin as he was filled with the heavy thick weight of Jos’ cock, all Francis could remember through the familiar pleasure of sex and wanting was the low urgency of Jos’ voice when he’d said  I know who you are .   
  
It was at once the most wonderful and awful promise anyone had ever made him, Francis knew, shifting one leg up to push his hips down over Jos’ cock, gratified by the resultant broken gasp as Jos drove further within as he tried to stem the tide of his thoughts and let loose the flood of his desire. With every movement, with every thrust and parry, they were becoming ever more intertwined, Francis thought desperately, shoving one hand into his lap to stroke himself and lacing the other through the damp warmth of Jos’ fingers. Jos was breathing against his shoulder, littering his neck with kisses and the swell of his thigh with tiny bruises from his clutching grasp as they rocked together.    
  
It was as unhurried and luxurious as the sweeping kisses on the couch, almost painfully sweet, the kind of fuck that Francis would never dare to film for this was private and unassuming, being held from the outside in, entirely wrapped up in the body of another.    
  
There was no great rapture, only a quiet, deeply stirring moment of release as he felt Jos stiffen and mouth messily at his throat, coming inside him. Francis spilled over his fingers, more aroused by the fervency of Jos’ climactic kiss than the burn of his thighs and the clench of his hand around his cock.    
  
And in the aftermath, Francis sighed and smiled softly as Jos rubbed a towel over them both, quick and efficient as always, before opening the window to cast cool night air over their too warm bodies as they smoked in comfortable silence. He rolled into his stomach and draped one leg over Jos’ hips, daring Jos to snort and cast off his affection, lulled into happy complaisance when Jos merely favored with him a long, lazy look..    
  
“Francis,” Jos asked quietly, breaking the stillness of the room.    
  
“Mmm,” Francis said into the pillow, floating on a sea of laxity, running his toes up the length of Jos’ calf, “What is it?”   
  
“Are you certain about Ivan?”    
  
Francis groaned into the pillow and shifted his head, swallowing the desire to wallop Jos for ruining such a wonderful mood, knowing that such a forthright question from his reticent lover required a forthright answer.    
  
He pushed his fingers through Jos’ messy hair, unwilling to let go entirely of the post-coital softness lingering in his veins,  answering, “My darling, he has been nothing but agreeable since arrival. He’s eager to learn and take instruction, and his sales have been far higher than I anticipated. I’m afraid I cannot quite see your problem with the situation.”    
  
Jos turned his gaze, serious in the darkness of the room to Francis, murmuring coolly as he exhaled a ring of smoke around their faces, “I do not trust him. His motivations evade me.”   
  
“But surely you can trust me?” Francis asked softly, dragging his fingers down the sharp line of Jos’ jaw, rubbing his thumb over the tenderness of his lips, holding his gaze all the while.    
  
Jos nodded but said nothing and in the stretch of the silence that fell between them, Francis stroked his chest and felt the steady beating of his heart as he started to give himself over to the desire for sleep.   
  
“Do not worry, sweet, I am certain that I will discover his motivations. And I promise I can exploit them to our advantage.”    
  
Jos pressed a kiss against the warmth of his palm before turning to extinguish their smokes and settle on his back, stealing his eyes away, as he breathed out, “Very well. If you are certain.”    
  
“I am. Everything will work out for the best,” Francis said with blithe finality, smiling sleepily and keeping his hand spread over Jos’ chest, confident that all was right in their world as he whispered, “May I stay?”    
  
Jos huffed though his voice was warm as he answered, “You may.”  
  
"Such a day for permissions," Francis murmured, sliding under the sheets and near enough to feel the warmth of Jos' skin, "What wonders will tomorrow hold?"

 


	8. The Long Road to Norway

“What the fuck are you doing here?”   
  
Francis sighed and let the door swing closed behind him, slamming with finality as he stepped into Gilbert’s bar and attempted to smile at the harsh welcome, oddly comforted by the total lack of kindness in Gil’s familiar voice.   
  
“Hello to you, too,” Francis said lowly, shuffling forward to drape his coat over one of the bar stools and slump gracefully on another, feeling more tired and weighed down than he had in all his recent memory, “So glad to see you’ve not improved in essentials since Christmas.”   
  
“Screw the essentials,” Gilbert answered brashly, shoving away from leaning against the back bar to push his face far too close to Francis’, “And aren’t you the asshole for not answering my question?”   
  
Francis turned away from Gilbert’s beady glare, running his over the split wood of the bar, murmuring bitterly, “Why else does one come to a rundown bar in the middle of the day? What sort of bartender are you if you cannot recognize the signs of despair and ruin in your customers?”   
  
Gilbert snorted, “Fuck you, Francis. Like I waste my awesome time trying to listen to other people’s problems. I’m here to pour beer and break up fights.”   
  
“Or start them,” Francis teased with a halfhearted smile, “But, really, darling, do feel free to take pity on my tired feet and shattered heart and bring me something much, much more potent than beer.”   
  
Gilbert eyed him suspiciously, taking his chin between fingers that smelled of bock, staring at him as though he wished to ascertain the veracity of Francis’ complaints before doing his sacred duty as barkeep and serving up blessed alcohol and a listening ear.   
  
“Hmm,” Gilbert grumbled, releasing Francis and stalking towards the top-shelf liquor, “Must be bad if you came all the way out here for some of my tender loving not caring.”   
  
Francis laughed dryly, wondering how addled his brain must have been for his feet to have carried him here, in search of Gilbert’s special brand of Prussian compassion. But he had known Gilbert for as long as he had known himself, or so it seemed, and he was the only one on the outside of the Tulip besides Arthur who would tell him the truth, even if it hurt.   
  
“Oh, its very bad. I assure you, its bad enough to warrant whatever it is you’ve so kindly just pulled down.”   
  
A bottle of schnapps and a bottle of whiskey slammed down in front of him, along with Gilbert’s fist followed by a menacing growl, “Nothing better have happened to West. Or that cute Italian he hangs around with.”   
  
“Oh, calm down,” Francis said wearily, pushing his messy hair out of his face and gesturing for a shot glass, “Your brother is fine. Feliciano is fine. This is about me.”   
  
Gilbert laughed harshly and pushed a tumbler into his waiting hand, “You? You’re like a cat with nine fucking lives. You always land on your feet. How bad can it possibly be?”   
  
Francis smiled wanly into Gilbert’s badly disguised worry, unsure of whether to be flattered by such a description of his resiliency for all that he knew it to be true. Even now with all the walls of his empire crumbling around him, Francis knew that he’d find a way out of the rubble, though he would not escape unscathed or unchanged.   
  
“My own Waterloo,” Francis confessed lowly, raising his glass in a mockery of cheers, swallowing through the burn and closing his eyes so as not to witness the the slow creep of curiosity and caring across Gilbert’s face.   
  
“Arthur fucking with you again?” Gilbert asked, obviously interested against his will even as Francis sighed and shook his head.   
  
“Apologies, Gil, I am afraid I am not quite up to combing through my limited military history for the most appropriate allegory this afternoon,” Francis said bleakly, pouring another measure of schnapps and whiskey into his glass, “I meant only to imply that by my own folly I’ve totally cocked up everything.”   
  
“Heh,” Gilbert said, scratching the back of his head and glaring at the drunk at the end of the bar who dared to eavesdrop on their conversation, “Well, Napoleon was both awesome and a total ego-maniacal fuck-up. Luckily for you, I happen to be an expert on this shit, so tell me what the fuck happened and I’ll do you the grand favor of providing an apt battle reference.”   
  
“Oh? I thought you were only here to pour beer and break-up fights,” Francis murmured affectionately, feeling a tiny frisson of genuine relief pass through the morass of doubt, anger, and sadness that had wrapped itself around his shoulders since he stepped on the train headed for Berlin at Centraal Station that morning.   
  
“Asshole,” Gilbert grumbled fondly, shuffling to the end of the bar to give the sole occupant a jerk of the thumb that was a clear dismissal, “I also happen to be awesome at identifying and codifying fights.”   
  
Francis waited until the drunk stumbled out of the bar and Gilbert had flicked the lock and pulled down the iron shutters before unbuttoning the top of his shirt, wanting more room to breathe around the tightness that still lingered in his throat, frowning around the memory his words formed, “I suppose I could blame it all on Ivan. Or perhaps even Jens were I feeling particularly punitive. But, really, the fault is mine and mine alone...”   
  
_Two weeks earlier_   
  
Frustrated by a serious case of writer’s block, Francis escaped from the confines of his office, wandering down the halls of the Studio which were empty and quiet in the late hours of the evening but for the almost ever-present light filtering from under Jos’ office door. He wondered when the man was going to have the time to move into his new apartment, let alone tackle the not insubstantial task of redecoration if he insisted on living in the office. In the same breath, he wondered when he would have time to live up to his own promise of decorating assistance, feeling entirely dragged down by his constantly expanding to-do list.   
  
Though he knew it was a sign of a business in bloom, Francis could not deny the headache that crept into the corners of his mind each time one task was checked off only to be replaced by three others. It had been more than a month since he’d last risked an afternoon playing hooky, and though it had ended far more pleasurably than any of the work days since, he had still been in the company of a colleague (dear as Jos was) and they had even managed to mix in shop talk with pillow talk.   
  
So much work and so little play. So little time to enjoy the pleasures from their hard earned profits.   
  
For a brief second, he considered inviting himself into Jos’ office and indulging them both in a little rest and relaxation before abandoning the idea with a sigh, all too aware of Jos’ inability to delegate and the work load he carried without complaint. Instead, Francis ambled towards the main set, still dressed from the morning’s Ottoman Empire themed shoot, immediately regretting his decision when he discovered that the set had also apparently been appropriated as the scene of a rather raucous and messy party.   
  
Annoyed by his little Tulips’ disregard for the sanctity of his sets, but too tired to do more than plot exactly how he would exact his revenge ( _someone_  was going to be on towel duty for a very long time!), Francis kicked cups and streamers out of the way and stretched out with groan on the softness of the Persian rug, grabbing one of the many pillows strewn around him and shoving it under his head. He closed his eyes and tried to float away from the ten unfinished scripts on his desktop and the countless hours of raw footage he needed to review and approve and thoughts of the dishes and unfolded laundry that waited for him in the apartment he saw far too little of these days.   
  
Life had been much easier when all he had to was show up and blow the mind and body of some poor, tragically deluded man who thought he was going to be the next big thing, Francis thought fondly, lulled by the haze of memory as he slid of his shoes and took what pleasure there was to be had in pushing his toes into the plushness of the rug.   
  
“Oh, for goodness’ sake!” Francis huffed angrily when felt the sticky remnants of liquor and beer touch his feet.   
  
“A great shame, no?” A low, rumbling voice echoed from the shadows, scaring Francis right out of his irritation until the figure moved out of the darkness to come settle his long, thick limbs beside Francis’ still tense body.   
  
“Ivan! You terrified me! Whatever are you doing lurking here so late in the evening?” Francis asked over the rushing of his heart, laughing a little at he tried to calm the racing of his pulse.   
  
“I was waiting for you,” Ivan said peaceably, smiling into Francis’ repose as though it was perfectly normal to spend hours off the clock waiting for one’s boss. Some of Francis’ skepticism must have shown, as Ivan shrugged and waved a hand about the room before continuing, “Also, I was observing the party.”   
  
Frowning while he kicked away yet another spilled cup (honestly, they were  _all_  going to be washing the set sheets for  _months_ ), Francis pressed Ivan for information, “Tell me, my dear, who perpetrated this atrocity and for what reason?”   
  
Ivan’s teeth gleamed under the red glare of the emergency lighting, his smile widening as he cheerfully ratted out his colleagues, “A celebration of Jens’ six month reign as top seller. Everyone was invited.”   
  
Except for the owner and the director, Francis noted sourly, “Ah, yes, the so-called King of the Wankers. Has it really been six months?”   
  
Ivan nodded, “So they claim, with much enthusiasm. He is a rising star, very popular, his name everywhere.”   
  
“Indeed,” Francis said dryly, “He was a fortuitous find.”   
  
Ivan’s smile faded away abruptly, his voice suddenly serious and stern, “You discovered him. You made him. You make all of us, all of this,” he finished with a grand gesture of his arm that encompassed the whole of the room.   
  
Flattered, unsettled by the intensity of such words, Francis demurred softly, “I’m hardly to be credited with so much.”   
  
Ivan’s hand fell on his shoulder, large thumb stroking boldly over his collarbone as he said lowly, “You are credited with nothing. Where is your name to be found? On the website? No. On our DVDs? No. How is anyone to remember and acknowledge your greatness if you do not tell them who you are?”   
  
Francis stilled, peering up at Ivan’s concerned expression with a queer sense of unease and displeasure curdling in his chest at the pathetic thought of having his name fade in obscurity, shaking his head as he tried to regain his footing, “It hardly matters. You don’t see Mr. van Rijn listed anywhere either. We do this as the Blue Tulip, not for ourselves.”   
  
Ivan’s lips curled dangerously for a fleeting moment before settling once more into something resembling a smile, his voice pleasantly cool as he said, “Mr. van Rijn does not want you to shine, he hides you away because he knows that without you he would have nothing.”   
  
Francis started to protest, “That’s hardly fair or appropriate, Ivan...”   
  
Ivan’s fingers tightened on his shoulder, interrupting his rebuke with an empathic declaration, “But we should join our names together. Become one with me and I will make it so your name is never forgotten.”   
  
Later, Francis would suppose that laughing was not the best response, but at the time he was so taken aback by the unexpected offer and the fervency in Ivan’s gray eyed stare (such a contrast to the cool, calculation of Jos’ conquest) that he could not help by laugh through the relief spilling through his chest.   
  
“Oh, my dear Ivan,” Francis said breathlessly, sitting up and pushing away from Ivan’s grasping fingers, “Let’s have no more talk of such ridiculous notions. You and I, we both belong here, at the Blue Tulip, where I can help you make a name for yourself.”   
  
Ivan looked thunderous as he murmured, “Even if your own should become tarnished?”   
  
“Let me worry about me,” Francis said lightly, stroking his hand down Ivan’s arm, grateful for his concern in spite of his strange intensity.   
  
“So you will not join me or film with me?” Ivan asked as he started to stand up, holding out a hand for Francis, who reached for it, allowing himself to be pulled into Ivan’s strong, unrelenting embrace.   
  
“I’m afraid not,” Francis said gently before brightening his tone, wanting to keep Ivan tethered to him and to the Studios, unwilling to let go just yet of such fire and zeal, “But I will always be here to teach you, to direct you, to guide you down the primrose path.”   
  
Ivan smiled at him, though his eyes were distant and his clutch of his hands rough, “Hmm, but I wonder what will happen when you have taught me all that you can?”   
  
“Francis.”   
  
Francis startled at the sound of Jos’ voice, taut and cold, calling to him from down the hallway. He pulled against the hands the arms that attempted to bind him before huffing, “Be a dear and let me go, Ivan. It seems I’m needed.”   
  
Ivan released him immediately, nodding and smiling as he said, “I understand. This has been most enlightening. Thank you.”   
  
Distracted by the frigidness of Jos’ glare, Francis tossed out a “You’re welcome,” walking away from Ivan’s still hulking figure, unsettled by the surprising revelation of the depth of Ivan’s fixation, but certain that with proper care he could peel away the troublesome layers to serve his own needs.   
  
He failed to notice that Ivan was still watching him as he followed Jos’ clipped strides down the hallway and into the safe familiarity of Jos’ office.   
  
Francis perched on the arm of his chair, wary of the tension in Jos’ back as he paced behind his desk, taking note of the tiredness of his eyes and the thinness of his lips, feeling his headache come creeping in as he realized this was not to be a meeting of pleasure.   
  
“We’ll need to whip miscreants we call employees at dawn,” Francis said lightly, hoping to cajole Jos out of his black mood, “They’ve made an utter mess of my beautiful Turkish set.”   
  
“Yes, an idiotic celebration for an idiot,” Jos said harshly, drumming his fingers on the desk, “But then I wonder where they found the inspiration.”   
  
Francis bristled, knowing that Jos underhandedly accusing him of starting the trend of tracking popularity statistics, answering coolly, “Though I hardly approve of destroying company property, I believe in acknowledging accomplishment.”   
  
“Yes, acknowledgement is important to you,” Jos sneered under his breath, setting Francis on edge, his temper rising with the unexpected hostility in the room.   
  
Jos let out a long breath before sitting in his chair and meeting Francis’ increasingly irate gaze, speaking more calmly, “I’ve been on the phone with an old colleague from Hungary. She’s very plugged into the moves and shifts in our world. I’ve never known her information to be anything less than valuable.”   
  
Annoyed that Jos was once again allowing an outsider to breach the walls of their castle and inspect their private battle plans and with a sinking suspicion that he knew exactly where this conversation was headed, Francis asked archly, “And?”   
  
Jos paused, his eyes almost worried as Francis looked at him defensively, waiting to receive the latest slight against his judgment of character.   
  
“She told me disturbing rumors about Braginski. Past behaviors. Delusions of grandeur,” Jos said quietly and succinctly, never one to mince words.   
  
Francis sighed and rubbed his fingers over his forehead, frustrated the persistence of both Jos and Ivan, perplexed by Jos’ inability to let him handle this situation as effectively as he had with all their previous recruitments. It stung that Jos doubted him enough to seek outside counsel, the barb burrowing further and further under his skin.   
  
“There is nothing about Ivan that I cannot manage,” Francis said brusquely, “He’s been made perfectly aware of my expectations of him and what he can expect of me. I’ve no reason to believe that he should not be a productive and welcomed member of our team.”   
  
Jos eyed him, voice cool, “You seem almost willfully blind when it comes to Ivan.”   
  
“And you, my darling, you seem willfully intrusive,” Francis snapped, “Or have you forgotten what it was you brought here me to do?”   
  
Jos laughed dryly, a mocking ghost of amusement, the sound of it like sandpaper over Francis’ irritated and stubborn pride.   
  
“I brought you here to make use of your skills and talents, not to provide you with sycophants to feed your appetite for admiration and appreciation,” Jos said with such quiet cruelty that it felt like a fine incised wound, a sharp quick cut of the knife that loosed all Francis’ anger.   
  
He stood from his chair, shoving it back as he flattened his palms over Jos’ desk, leering nastily, “Do you imagine that I need assistance in finding either? Do you think so little of me that you believe I need you, need this, to be admired and appreciated?”   
  
Jos said nothing, staring back boldly, revealing nothing as Francis laughed prettily, a hollow sound filled with bitterness, stalking towards him as he continued softly, “If you know who I am, my little fool, then you know I can have anyone I desire.”   
  
And then Francis saw it, the tiny downward curving of Jos’ lips, though his gaze never broke, his silence never wavered, it was enough to tell Francis all he needed to know of Jos’ doubt, all he needed to understand about how exactly it was Jos believed he knew him.   
  
Francis stilled between the spread of Jos’ knees, taking his chin between his fingers, peering down at him imperiously, struggling to maintain his composure over the searing anger and unexpected sadness, murmuring coldly, “Of course you know this. It is what you know most of all, what you knew of me first and what you think you will know last. And all this time, you’ve been wondering why you, wondering if you were just my flavor of the week, wondering when I would tire of this puzzle and go off in search of more fulfilling entertainment.”   
  
Francis cut off anything Jos would dare to say with a bruising kiss, filled with the kind of passion only rage and heartache can conjure, stealing away all his control, taking him in such a way that betrayed all the delicate softness that had so long been between them. Jos gasped and sighed into his mouth like he’d been waiting for this since the first time they had touched, parting his lips to the violence of Francis’ kiss, cock already hard under the hand Francis had pressed to his lap, hips pushing into him with abandon.   
  
Abruptly, Francis pulled away before he his body could betray more of his secrets, wrenching himself from this kiss and looking anywhere but the swollen wetness of Jos’ mouth and the wretched wanting in his eyes.   
  
Turning towards the door, Francis fought to catch his breath and slow his dark, dangerous desire, whispering, “Well, now you shall always have to wonder.”   
  
Without hesitation, Francis moved swiftly to leave this room that had suddenly gone so cold and disappointing, feeling as though he had lost all solid ground and was treading water in a sea of suspicion and mistrust.   
  
Hand on the door, Francis spoke lowly but firmly, knowing that Jos was listening to every word, “Ivan stays. Unless, of course, you wish to renege on the terms of our original contract.”   
  
He did not remain to hear Jos’ answer.   
~~~~   
  
“Yeah, that’s definitely no fucking Waterloo,” Gilbert offered helpfully as Francis rolled his eyes and poured another shot, hoping the burn of the alcohol would erase the ache he still felt each time he considered how it was that he and Jos could have so misunderstood the sweetness between them. He wondered how he could have so willfully mistaken his own feelings until it was far too late in the game to have any cards left to play.   
  
“My apologies that my problems do not neatly align with military conquest,” Francis replied bitterly.   
  
“Nah, you’re not too far off. Right general, wrong battle. I’m going to take a wild guess and assume you dug in your heels over the creepy Russia fucker?” Gilbert conjectured, eying Francis knowingly.   
  
“You’ve always been more perceptive than attractive. Which is not saying much, mind you.”   
  
Gilbert laughed maniacally, flicking Francis’ hands with his bar towel, “Fuck you. I just know you too goddamned well.”   
  
Francis groaned, “It seems everyone but me does these days.”   
  
“Heh, but not like I do. Not like Toni does. Or even that weird pissy British guy,” Gilbert said proudly, as though having a history with Francis was something to lord over, “You’re like a moth to fucking flame when you find something you deem worthy enough of your time. God forbid anyone try to warn you off. Stubborn bastard.”   
  
The truth of it sank like a rock in the sea of his sorrow and intoxication and Francis swore he could feel the ripples of his own folly. He smiled wanly at Gilbert, at his familiar, dangerous grin and wild eyes, thinking of how many times people had questioned his sanity for never failing to take Gilbert back after some catastrophe or another. He thought of Jos and the cold amusement in his eyes and the beguiling tilt of his lips when Francis surprised him.   
  
“Mmm, but sometimes that refusal to look away yields me good things,” Francis murmured affectionately, turning his eyes towards the bar so Gilbert would not have to feel ashamed of the blush that painted his cheeks.   
  
“And sometimes you get burned,” Gilbert grumbled, pouring them each another draught.   
  
Francis winced, thinking of the the conflagration he’d flown into last night, how he feared he had managed to singe everything he now held dear, “You have no idea.”   
  
Gilbert looked at him with something bordering on awful, horrifying pity before coming from around the bar to settle next to Francis, poking him in the side as he said, “So, give me an idea. Let’s see your fucking scars.”

 

 

~~~

After the  incident , as Francis had taken to calling it in his mind, unwilling to think of it as anything even resembling a break-up when there had apparently been nothing real to break-up in the first place, a strange tension had blanketed the Blue Tulip Studios. It wasn’t just the icy professionalism that now existed in the place of teasing words and soft touches that made the hallways and sets of the place he so adored feel so foreign. A shadow had fallen, as though the storm brewing between Jos and Francis had clouded over each corner of their precious world, darkening and dampening the joy and promise that the New Year had heralded.    
  
The sight of Jos--tired, stern, and as removed from him as he had been when he’d been nothing but an accountant in a Parisian porn studio--tasted bitterly on Francis’ tongue. The cuts they had inflicted on each other bled underneath the disguises they wore, wounds dressed in bland, precise talk of business and nothing else, their eyes never quite meeting at they exchanged the barest necessities of words. The awful ache he felt each time they talked surprised him for all that it was quickly and blessedly smothered by the hot flare of remembered anger at having his affections and intentions so desperately undervalued.    
  
So Francis had done what he always did in times of crisis, when he felt as though his back was against the wall. He dug into his position and resumed business as usual, throwing himself entirely into the work of proving himself right and emerging victorious. And, in retrospect, it was the singularity of focus, the burning need for distraction from that irritating sense of emptiness and disappointment that had muffled his ears to the ominous cracks of lightening and thunder that sounded around him, warning him of the deluge to come.    
  
First there had been Alfred, complaining insistently to him in his office one evening about his intense dislike of having to share scenes with Ivan. Alfred, his shining American star, the prize of his Arthurian war sat on his couch and told him with all the fervency that he normally reserved for food and food alone that Ivan was totally destroying his game, creeping him out and pissing him off so badly that he couldn’t do his best work.    
  
Francis, still stinging from Jos’ rebuke , listened with only half an ear, knowing Alfred well enough to believe that he was only reacting so strongly because he viewed Ivan as competition, chalking up the bulk of Alfred’s complaints to male posturing. He just knew that with time and with proper guidance, he could channel that competitive edge into something explosive and highly profitable. Francis made only vague assurances to discuss the matter with Ivan and take Alfred’s request under consideration, but also reminded him of the Studio policies regarding talent dictating with whom they would and would not film    
  
Alfred, the dear boy, looked at him in consternation for a long moment and then asked him if he was alright.   
  
That should have been sign enough that something was desperately wrong, but it was not.    
  
It should have been enough that Eduard and Feliks started regarding at him with wary suspicion, mumbling under their breath whenever he walked by.    
  
It should have been enough when Antonio pulled him aside one afternoon and gave him a glass of cheap Rioja and heaping dose of well intentioned concern, only to have Francis take that concern and twist into something almost unforgivable.    
  
“What happened?” Antonio asked, running his hands through Francis’ long hair, pulling at the curled ends in a gesture of familiarity and comfort, “What trouble have you gotten yourself into this time?”     
  
“What on earth do you mean, my darling?” Francis deflected, turning within Antonio’s arms to take those caring hands between his own, giving Antonio his best attempt a careless, happy smile.    
  
Antonio laughed hesitantly and shook his head as he said with gentle insistence, “Your office door has been wide open for days. So has the Boss’.”    
  
“So?” Francis said dismissively, the ache returning in his chest, making him want to do anything to be rid of the feeling of wrongness, the queer sense that there was something critical in all this tangled mess that he was missing.    
  
And Antonio was right there, warm and soft, a known and kind presence in a place that felt increasingly foreign and hostile, and Francis wanted distraction. A petty, vengeful voice whispered to him that this was who he was after all, so why should he not live up to expectations.    
  
“Maybe I wanted a change of scenery, a wider perspective,” Francis murmured with his mouth pressed over the steady hum of Antonio’s pulse, trying to fall into desire, closing his eyes and waiting for relief.    
  
“Stop that,” Antonio commanded lowly, pushing Francis away, his pretty eyes awash with hurt.     
  
“Why?” Francis persisted, sliding one hand up Antonio’s shirt, needing to feel close to something other than his own confusion, “Why shouldn’t we?”   
  
Antonio grabbed his hands and wrenched them away, a rare expression of anger breaking Francis from his intentions, guilt already curdling in his stomach at the disappointment on Antonio’s lips.    
  
“I’m not stupid,” Antonio sighed, dropping Francis’ hands and stalking away, “At least not stupid enough be some rock you throw at the Boss for whatever is really making you act like this.”     
  
Francis winced at having been so easily caught out, despairing that he had come so far undone that even Antonio could puzzle him out. He reached for Antonio, conciliatory and cringing, “You’re right, you’re right, of course. I’m sorry, you must know I am sorry, my darling.”    
  
Antonio sighed and looked at him with wide, sad eyes, murmuring as he started to walk away, “At least I know you well enough to that you mean it.” He paused, gesturing towards the Studios, “But be careful, Francis. I am not so sure that everyone will be so understanding.”    
  
In the wake of Antonio’s rejection and his self-recrimination for having been so careless with a friend, Francis assumed that Antonio had meant that it was Jos who would not understand, and the thought had made him laugh bitterly because the entire problem had been that Jos thought he understood far too well.   
  
And through it all, the days of Jos’ silences and his Tulips’ suspicious glares, Ivan had been strangely absent. His once nigh omnipresent companion had seemingly faded into the background, and the only thing that Francis heard of him was the occasional grumble of his name as he walked down the hall or passed through the break-room on his way to the set.    
  
But none of it had been enough to penetrate through his tired, scattered mind as he continued to trudge down the path he had committed to so strongly, determined to see it through until the bitter end.    
  
It was not until Feliks sent him a scathing email full of angry emoticons and harsh words accusing Ivan of being too rough and “like totally out of line” both on and off set that Francis began to suspect that something had gone awry, that the situation was starting to slide from his grasping fingers. Feliks, who almost always had a smile and saucy wink for him, who had never even bothered with the company email until today; this same Feliks now accused him of giving Ivan license to do whatever he liked, who told him how Ivan bragged that he had explicit permission from Francis to find his own style, make his own name.  Feliks who told him that there were things in motion that he even he couldn’t talk is way out of.   
  
And finally, finally, as his eyes blurred from reading words he’d never thought to be sent, the veil of willful ignorance lifted enough for him to see this email from Feliks for what it was--a last warning, one last resounding clap of thunder intended to draw his eyes to the storm on the horizon.    
  
With a sinking sensation that he was not about to like what he found, Francis closed his office door, took advantage of the less delightful form of Dutch courage, and pulled up the footage from Ivan’s previous two shoots. The clips had been in cue for several days waiting for his approval but the workload had been nigh unbearable that week, and with the unexpected rift between he and Jos, it had taken Francis much longer to do tasks alone that he had become accustomed to sharing with Jos, even only been as a quiet sounding board for his most ridiculous ideas or biggest frustrations.    
  
His eyes widened in shock as he beheld the transformation of Ivan. No longer was his most fought for Tulip paying him homage. Gone was the strange reinterpretation of Francis Bonnefoy in all its smudged sensuality and mysterious grace. In its place, Francis saw an Ivan unleashed; raw, demanding, with enough cold distance and joyous viciousness in his eyes and in his smile to be someone wholly new.  And he knew now that this was the true face of Ivan, the one he had been hiding behind his masterful imitations and flattering words.  
  
Worse, he could see the displeasure on Feliks’ face and the barely concealed anger on Eduard’s as the scene progressed. This was not at all what he had written, not what he had intended, and he could hear the frustrated, increasingly irate shouts of his poor, struggling second director trying to regain control of the shoot.    
  
This was not at all what he had wanted.    
  
Closing the window with disgust and swallowing the remainder of his drink to fight off the gnawing worry that had settled under his skin and quiet the whispers in his heart telling him he had greatly, grossly miscalculated, Francis went forth to wage one last stand in his battle over Ivan.    
  
He found Ivan on set, smiling blithely and rubbing his hands over one of the paddles from the dungeon and for the first time Francis thought he could finally see the danger in the man’s face, shrewd under the cheerful, vacant grin and agreeable expression.    
  
“Ivan, I need to speak with you immediately,” Francis said firmly, astonished when Ivan did not immediately react to his words, tapping his foot on the floor to gain his attention, “Ivan. Now, if you please.”    
  
Ivan turned to him slowly, “I do not please, but I suppose for you I shall make an allowance, yes?”    
  
Taken aback, Francis proceeded cautiously, suddenly uncertain of just how the game had progressed when he was busy doing anything but looking, “I’ve seen footage of your latest scene with Poland and Estonia. I admit I was rather shocked to find you so different and so disagreeable.”   
  
“Much happens when you don’t pay attention, when you don’t listen,” Ivan answered lowly, his smile growing ugly, “But then I always listen. I always pay attention.”   
  
Irritated, Francis snapped, “Yes, yes, you’ve been a wonderful student, but that does not give you license to ignore the director nor take liberties with your co-workers.”    
  
Ivan had the gall to look confused though his eyes glinted cruelly as he took the breath from Francis’ lungs, “I could not have the best, so I must become the best. This is how I think I will do it. If they do not understand, they should get out of my way. And you said so yourself, that I must have my own style, make my own name. And that you would always be here to help me do it. Because I belong here. With you.”    
  
Francis swore under his breath, nails digging into the flesh of his palm as it became deadly apparent to him how exactly Ivan had framed those words of support, how he had twisted and tarnished his assurances to look like approval and promises of protection. The whispers and the disappointed looks suddenly made so much sense it made him ill to think of it.    
  
“That is not at all what I intended, Ivan,” Francis hissed as he felt all his control fade away, buried under the rubble of his pride, “Yes, I want you to be successful. I want you to come into your own and blossom just as I want  all  my Tulips to grow strong and beautiful.”   
  
Ivan stood from the couch, towering over him as he said softly, “Ah, but perhaps they do not want to grow for you any longer. Perhaps they no longer find your garden so welcoming.”    
  
“What have you done?” Francis sighed miserably, wondering how much damage Ivan could have possibly wrought, wondering if he had been planting the seeds of discourse even as he was courting Francis. A contingency plan should Francis turn down his first offer.    
  
Ivan touched a cold hand to his face, cupping his chin while Francis glared at him, holding his ground even while he fought the urge to flee when Ivan smiled at him gently and said, “Only as you have taught me. I’ve learned much from you, Francis. But I think perhaps you’ve shown me enough.”    
  
Francis shuddered and closed his eyes, enduring the soft brush of Ivan’s taunting touch over his cheek for a long, silent moment before he felt the hand holding him drop and the man who had sought his approval and his ruination walked calmly away with almost certain victory between his fingers.    
  
He wasn’t sure how long it was he stood there, quiet and defeated, shaken and more uncertain than he had been in so many years; all he knew is that there was nothing but a sense of disastrous relief in his heart when Jos came to him bearing a grim face and a manila folder that looked so much like the one that he’d used in the first steps of their seduction dance. For the first time in almost two weeks, Francis met his eyes, unsurprised to find all the warmth that he’d come to treasure gone, replaced by distance and cool wariness. To Francis in this moment of defeat, it seemed desperately unfair that he should still be gifted with the familiar tiny creases of worry lining Jos' forehead.    
  
Francis opened his mouth to speak, to hang his head and offer Jos the bitterest admission of his own failure, only to shut it once more as Jos held up a hand and started to talk, his voice low and colorless like a gray morning:   
  
“I can ignore it no longer. We have a serious problem.”   
  
Francis laughed mirthlessly, “That we do.”    
  
Jos snapped his fingers, tone impatient and so deeply frustrated it grated over Francis’ guilty ears, “I’ve received several complaints from our staff concerning potential work place mistreatment at the hands of another staff member and blatant disregard of these concerns by management."    
  
Shocked that he could shocked by another revelation in this afternoon of catastrophe, Francis exclaimed, “You know? They came to you?”    
  
“They felt they had no other recourse.Apparently this has been going on for weeks. They felt you were turning a blind eye,” Jos said coolly and calmly, though Francis could feel the burn of recrimination in his cheeks.   
  
“But how can that be? Its only been mentioned to me in the past few days?” Francis protested weakly, though guilty thoughts of how he had brushed aside Alfred and Feliks’ concerns nagged at him.   
  
“It was apparently difficult to find a time when you were not with the offender. There were serious concerns that you were no longer to be entirely trusted as Ivan has been sowing discord everywhere he goes,” Jos told him matter of factly, confirming all of Francis’ worst fears, "I've done what I can. But now we are at an impasse."   
  
“I see,” was all Francis could manage in his defense as he waited for Jos to deliver the final blow of  I told you so .    
  
But instead of telling Francis what he knew he richly deserved, Jos handed over the folder with a grimace and a sigh so soft it was almost inaudible, stepping closer as he finally said, “Ivan must go. There is no other option.”    
  
“Yes,” Francis answered with soft finality, “Yes, I agree entirely.”    
  
Jos gave nothing away, just nodded and said, “Very well. I will tell him immediately.”    
  
Francis reached out to touch his wrist before remembering that was no longer who they were and letting his hand fall against his side, sighing, “No, I will do it. Its my responsibility.”    
  
“As you wish.”    
  
“Is this the termination paperwork?” Francis asked tiredly, eying the folder between his fingers.    
  
Jos cleared his throat and Francis thought that perhaps he had never seen such fleetingly endearing hesitation in his expression before.   
  
“Ah. No. That is a new contract that transfers all control of the Blue Tulip to me.”   
  
Francis closed his eyes against the swelling sadness, listening to the racing of his heart, wishing he could take them both back to that moment in Jos’ bed when he had pressed for Jos’ trust, opening them again only when Jos swallowed audibly and said:.    
  
“In case you feel it necessary to leave.”    
  
Francis smiled brokenly, asking the question it seemed Jos would not, “Or if I wish to follow Ivan?”    
  
“It is your choice,” Jos said with quiet, heavy simplicity, giving Francis one last long searching look before walking away, leaving Francis with the remnants of his heart and his kingdom in his hands.    
  
~~~~~   
  
“I don’t know if I should kick your ass for giving me details about trying to sleep with Toni or for being a total bastard to Toni,” Gilbert groused as Francis finished telling his story and reached desperately for the rapidly emptying bottle.   
  
“I am a wretch,” Francis said sadly, agreeing entirely.   
  
“You’re lucky he’s so damned forgiving,” Gilbert said, pulling the tumbler of whiskey from Francis’ grasp, “But since I’m not, I’m cutting you off until pull your shit together enough to tell me what the fuck happened after the failure of your battle for Russia.   
  
Francis sighed and propped his head in his hands, murmuring, “I did as I promised and sent Ivan away. And then I walked out of the building and proceeded to get very drunk for two days until I didn’t have to think any longer. This morning I didn’t want to be alone so I got on a train. And now I am here.”    
  
Gilbert ran a rough hand through Francis’ hair, pushing his head back so that he had no other choice but to stare at him as he said, “Heh, you must be some kind of fucked up, coming here.”    
  
Francis managed a soft smile, tinged with whiskey and exhaustion, “You must be right.”    
  
“But now that the Russian’s gone and your campaign’s a fucking shambles, what are you going to do?”   
  
Finally released from Gilbert’s insistent hold, Francis reached once more for his captive glass, pouting pathetically until Gilbert relented and shoved it towards him with a huff, arching an eyebrow and curling his arm across his chest, clearly ready to lay siege until Francis relented and answered his question.    
  
And he would have, gladly, if only as thanks for the return of the liquor and the total lack of judgment in Gilbert’s odd but loved face, if only he had an answer. For two days, Francis had carried the folder with its simple sheets of white paper printed in bold black ink, offering him an out if he wanted one, the opportunity to walk away from all the mess he had made, to walk away from Jos and the searing disappointment he still felt every time he remembered how it had ended between them.    
  
More than anything, he desperately wondered if Jos wanted him to walk away.    
  
A snap of fingers in front of his face roused him from his dark, pitying thoughts, forcing him to give Gilbert the best answer he had available.   
  
“Honestly, my darling, I really don’t know.”    
  
Gilbert scoffed and looked at him as though he had lost his mind, which was entirely possible given the circumstances and the proof of the alcohol, giving Francis a harsh awakening when he barked,    
  
“Are you fucking serious? Did you really walk away from the field of engagement and leave that poor Dutch bastard-brother corrupter without a decisive victory or defeat?” Gilbert paused, staring at him while Francis attempted to disappear into the bottom of his glass, before he groaned loudly and smacked a disapproving palm on the bar and continued, “Holy shit. You did. I don’t even like the guy and I’m going to go ahead and classify that as a dick move.”   
  
Annoyed and on the defensive, Francis let out an explosive sigh, protesting, “I ask for some measure of pardon, for God’s sake! I don’t know what the man would consider victorious. My departure? My head served over a plate of financials? He’s not exactly been reticent about his own desires in this whole sordid affair, so I apologize if I am at a bit of a loss as to whether or not to cut my losses and move on.”    
  
Gilbert frowned at him skeptically, on the verge of doubtless loosing another barrage of disciplinary truth only to be interrupted by the ringing of Francis’ pocket.    
  
Francis dug for the phone, anxiety creeping through his fingers as he looked at the caller ID, surprised to find that it read  Alfred.   
  
He looked to Gilbert for direction, rolling his eyes and remembering who he was turning to when the man only shrugged and gestured at the still ringing phone.    
  
Too curious as to what Alfred could possibly want, only half hoping that it was an unexpected emissary from the Tulip, Francis took a deep breath, tried to school his voice into nonchalance, and answered, “Hello? Alfred?”    
  
“Wrong as always,” a smug and hateful voice poured into his ear, making him cringe hard enough to startle Gilbert into concern as it continued, “But I suppose you of all people wouldn’t expect me to be calling from this number.”   
  
Arthur .  
  
Arthur was calling him. Calling him from Alfred’s phone. Which meant he was almost certainly in Amsterdam, very likely at the Blue Tulip, and most definitely aware of Francis’ spectacular failure. It seemed that Arthur’s time for revenge had come, but even now Francis could not regret that particular preemptive attack, for New York had been a rare golden moment, worth almost any retaliation.    
  
“Arthur,” Francis sighed tiredly,  hoping that Arthur had not overheard Gilbert’s sympathetic and sharp whistle at the sound of the name, feeling all the lingering frustration and sorrow from the past weeks come rushing to the surface as he coolly continued, “My darling. How unexpectedly expected to hear from you. Though I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that as a vulture you’ve come to circle about the carrion.”   
  
Arthur laughed, the sound of it rich and awful, “I’ve just been waiting for the chance to pick over your bones. It is very gratifying to be proved so wonderfully right after all.”   
  
Francis stilled at the arms that circled his shoulders, bracketing him on either side, looking up in wonder as Gilbert leaned towards him with a scowl and a blush, jerking his head to one side to indicate that Francis should tilt the phone away from his ear so he could listen in.    
  
Touched and embolden by the gesture of solidarity and comfort in disguise, he continued, “Mmm, yes, I know the feeling. But tell me, dearheart, why call from Alfred’s phone?”   
  
He should have known that Arthur was only biding his time, waiting for the best moment to sink the knife in deepest, and yet it still took his breath away when Arthur sneered, “Don’t be an idiot. You must have always known there was nothing that would keep Alfred from coming back to me, to returning to what he knows truest and best. Oh, you may have had his attention for his time and his loyalty even now, but I'm content to wait."  
  
"On what exactly?" Francis purred through the clench of his teeth, wishing he could rip the words from Arthur's throat.  
  
"For him to come to senses and realize exactly what you are. A shiny bauble, enrapturing and entertaining for a time, until inevitably everyone who holds you dear grows bored with your angles and opaqueness, dropping you for something less hard and unattainable. Except for one person.”    
  
“Except for you,” Francis said quietly, trying not to let Arthur glean victory from his words, feeling strangely off-balance to have been accused of the very thing he had tossed so coldly into Jos’ face not so long ago.   
  
Arthur laughed disdainfully, “Because I’ve never believed you to be anything other than a cheap imitation. But I hardly mean me. Oh, no, this is so much better, so much so I can’t begin to be bothered that my own plans failed.”    
  
Gilbert moved to take the phone from him, but Francis held on with an iron grip, heart in his throat as he asked the question Arthur so obviously desired, “Who, then?”    
  
Arthur’s voice was soft and cruelly considerate, so well played that Francis considered ceding the whole of their endless struggle to avoid hearing the name he knew was going to pass over the distance between Amsterdam and Berlin.   
  
“Jos.”   
  
“Jos?” Francis breathed out   
  
“I confess I was surprised myself,” Arthur continued with false geniality, twisting the blade between Francis’ ribs with too apparent delight, “I came to Amsterdam as soon as Alfred told me the rumors. That the great Francis Bonnefoy was in danger of being sued for workplace malpractice.”   
  
Francis went stock still in shock, exclaiming, “What?”    
  
Arthur snorted with laughter, “My gods. You didn’t know! This gets better and better!”   
  
Francis exploded, heart pounding against his ribs, voice fraught with tension, “You will tell me exactly what you know, Arthur, or so help me, there is nothing I won’t do to you.”   
  
“Calm down, you bastard,” Arthur said peaceable, clearly relishing Francis’ outrage, “I want to tell you everything. I’ve rarely wanted to talk to anyone more than I wish to speak to you right now.”   
  
“Go on,” Francis said through gritted teeth, bracing himself against the protective circle of Gilbert’s arms, certain there was no part of this he was going to want to hear.   
  
“Over a week ago I received a most interesting phone call from Alfred, who was distressed that his dear Big Brother Francis had refused to listen to his problems as regards one Ivan Braginsky. But more than just being brushed off as nothing more than a pouting little boy, Alfred was worried that you had no idea what was being said about you around the water cooler, how very upset some of his co-workers seemed to be. Naturally, I advised him to keep such worries between us and merely wait until the situation had  evolved  more fully.”   
  
“Naturally,” Francis answered dully, giving himself over to Arthur’s punishment.   
  
“Imagine my surprise when Alfred called me but two days later in a panic having learned of the desire of one colleague, a Mr. Eduard Van Bock’s inclination and determination to sue the Studio unless one Jos van Rijn demanded the immediate resignation of Ivan Branginsky...and Francis Bonnefoy.”    
  
Arthur paused, letting the glorious brutality of his news sink in fully before going on, voice softly mocking, “Really, Francis. Litigation? How the mighty must have fallen.”   
  
Francis struggled to put the timeline together, closing his eyes as he reached the bittersweet conclusion just as Arthur spelled it out for him with such malicious glee, “But you must imagine my even greater surprise when I arrived this morning, fully prepared out of the goodness of my heart to offer my expert advice to Jos and the wronged parties, only to find that the suit had been dropped.”    
  
“Dropped?”   
  
“Oh, yes. As it happens, much to my initial disappointment, Jos had already settled the claim, quie tly paying Mr. Van Bock the damages which you so masterfully caused. I could hardly fathom it. Jos van Rijn wasting money on such a worthless cause. And even more wonderfully, the worthless cause had run out with what I imagined was his tail between his legs, leaving Jos to clean up the great mess he'd made.”   
  
Francis said nothing, trying only to understand, to believe what he was he knew couldn’t be anything other than true.     
  
Jos had stood by him. Had chosen him when Francis had walked away in a flurry of hurt and misunderstandings.   
  
Even after the acrimony of their argument and as he had continued to so blindly pursue Ivan, Jos had remained true to their agreement. He had even given Francis the choice to walk away the Tulip without having breathed a word of what he had done for Francis.   
  
Over the rushing of his thoughts and the fracturing of his feelings, Francis could hear Arthur still railing, still trying to rub the salt in ever deeper, “Of course, I tried to talk him out of such idiocy. Tried to tell him that you would never be anything other than you are---a greedy, foolish man with not worth the time and---”   
  
Francis gasped, roused from his heartache when Gilbert pried the phone from his fingers and snarled into the receiver, “Hey, you stupid British fuck. This isn’t Waterloo and this time the Prussians are on the other side of the conflict, so you better shut the hell up before I show exactly why it was Napoleon got handed his ass.”    
  
With a decisive snap, Gilber closed the phone over Arthur’s outraged spluttering, giving Francis the tiniest measure of pleasure in a day filled with dark and damning revelations.    
  
“Thank you,” Francis said sweetly, knocking his forehead against Gilbert’s chin.    
  
“Asshole talks too much,” Gilbert grumbled, “Besides, we got all the intel we needed and even though it seems like we’re in situation totally fucked, at least now you know where you stand.”    
  
Francis sighed as Gilbert shifted away, wondering if he really did know where he stood...or where he wanted to be standing.    
  
He had understood so little and miscalculated so much that the chaotic loss of it all burned in his mind; a mind and a heart unsettled and uncertain of what to do with Jos’ grand, hidden gesture.    
  
It seemed he was not the only one capable of  cruel underestimation.    
  
“Mmm,” Francis hummed softly, tracing his fingers across the rim of the glass, “I am more confused now than ever.”    
  
Gilbert snorted and slammed another bottle of some unmarked liquor in front of him, eying him with caustic concern, “Well, fuck if I know what you should do. But you know the Gilbert Beilschmidt policy. You’ve got tonight to get as wasted and weepy as you fucking want.”   
  
“And then?” Francis said dryly, knowing the answer, but wanting to give Gilbert the pleasure of saying something he so enjoyed.   
  
Gilbert looked at him with a frighteningly confident grin that somehow eased the troubles of his mind.   
  
“And then tomorrow you’re going to walk off the goddamned battlefield, rearrange your strategy, and open your next campaign, whatever it may be.”    
  
Francis pulled the cork from the bottle and raised it in a mock salute, ready to drink his sorrows into the ground under the watchful eye of a good friend and greet the morning with a hangover to remember and hopefully a measure of clarity in hand.   
  
“Yes, sir. "

 

 

~~~~

There was a demon in Francis’ head. The demon in his head had come with a friend. An evil, grinning man with white hair and crazy eyes who great pleasure in shining horrible, unnecessary light into his face and cackling mercilessly. The demon, who must have been from a particularly sadistic circle of hell, also apparently brought weapons meant to slay Francis’ pathetic excuse for a hard night’s sleep in the form of a wet cloth to the forehead.   
  
“I hate you, Gilbert,” Francis groaned, pulling the revolting rag away and throwing it aimlessly in the direction of the rasping laughter, opening his eyes into the soft light that could only mean one thing, growling, “For goodness sake, you awful man, it can’t be later than 7am.”   
  
“Its 7:15. I'm feeling generous this morning,” Gilbert said smugly, setting something next to his bed that smelled like a wonderful miracle, “On account of how pathetic you were last night.”   
  
Ignoring that statement, Francis reached avidly for the coffee, eyes also lighting on the plate of toast and ham in Gilbert’s hand, immediately reassessing his earlier statement, “I love you, my darling.”   
  
“Who doesn’t?” Gilbert grumbled, shoving the plate at Francis and settling more fully on the rumpled sheets of the rickety bed tucked into a tiny room above the bar. Francis wondered if this had been Ludwig's before he ran away to Amsterdam and took up residence with Feliciano, deciding that he was far too off his game to risk poking the Gilbert-bear with that particular stick   
  
“I can’t think of anyone,” Francis teased gently, wincing as the coffee burned hot and bitter down his throat, “But why on earth aren’t you still in bed, also lamenting our poor life choices from last night?”   
  
Gilbert looked offended, snorting, “Feh, because I am awesome and don’t do hangovers. Also you were hogging the booze.”   
  
“Sorry,” Francis mumbled through a bite of toast.   
  
“I work in a bar. Somehow I think I can find more,” Gilbert said drolly, “Besides, if I had gotten my ass handed to me like you did, I would have wanted me to get me wasted too.”   
  
Oh. Yes. There was indeed a multitude of very good reasons for this very bad throbbing between his temples.   
  
The reminder of all that had transpired came rushing back to him, crashing waves of regret, sadness, and confusion mingling with the low ache of his head and the churning of his stomach.   
  
“Ah, yes,” Francis reflected deprecatingly, “I have managed to crash and burn rather magnificently, haven’t I?”   
  
“Pretty much,” Gilbert agreed, as unrelentingly honest as ever, “But that was yesterday and now its today, so you know what you’ve got to do.”   
  
Francis sighed and put down his coffee, running a tired hand through the tangles of his hair and reaching with the other for the manila folder resting on top of his bags, spreading the contract before him.   
  
“Easier said than done, my precious,” Francis murmured unable to keep his eyes from re-reading, _“Francis Bonnefoy hear by transfers all ownership in the Blue Tulip, Inc. to Jos van Rijn"_ , before he continued, “There is much at stake. For me. For him. For what is ours.”   
  
“Gah, you’re not going to start talking about your feelings, are you?” Gilbert asked brusquely, his abhorrence of anything bordering on the softer side of life drawing forth Francis' dry laughter.   
  
He considered how best to parse it all for Gilbert, how best to wade through the mire of his own making, tracing his fingers over the documents, trying to put into words all the hopes and fears that had been running endlessl circles in his mind since the revelations of the previous night.   
  
“Let me put it to you this way, my militaristic little fiend,” Francis began slowly, injured pride finally giving way to the truth of the matter, “I’ve been utterly defeated. Routed by my own poor execution of strategy. Beyond this, my ineffective leadership has caused harm to other allies. Allies who also have their own secondary motivations for aligning themselves with my cause. Motivations that are somewhat removed, but not at all inextricable from the general goal of promoting and protecting our common interest.”   
  
Gilbert nodded, fingers steepled under his chin, voice considering, “And you’ve betrayed those secondary motivations while also fucking up what was supposed to be a unified plan for domination?”   
  
Francis frowned, feeling the sting of Gilbert’s conclusion, “As blunt as always, my dear. But, yes, in the overzealous pursuit of one goal, I managed to underestimate the seriousness and importance of the other. I was overconfident and foolish. It was an outcome that some of my more prescient and hideously ugly enemies had predicted. ”   
  
He smiled wryly and waved an airy hand, "Hoisted my own petard, one might say."   
  
What Francis did not say was what had been ringing in his ears for hours, worrying at him until all his walls of denial had come tumbling down.   
  
That Arthur was right about him, and always would be. He  _was_  greedy and willfully blind. He wanted too much, took too much, and could not keep his hands from reaching out to touch the flames of attraction and interest that stirred him so. Time and time again he had been singed, but before the little touch of pain had been part of the thrill of the gamble and the chase.   
  
But not this time, when it felt as though everything was broken and burned. This time, for all that it was too late, he wished he had pulled his fingers away from Ivan’s fire and cupped his hands around Jos’ low burning flame instead.   
  
And when he thought of what Jos had done for him, silent and in the shadows, only to then put all the choices for their shared future in his hands, Francis wondered if perhaps that flame had not been entirely extinguished, and what exactly he should do in return.   
  
“Hey!” Gilbert snapped at him, rousing him from the maze of this thoughts, “Are you even listening to me?”   
  
Francis glanced at him wanly, apologizing, “Sorry, my darling, I got lost in the wreckage of the battlefield.”   
  
Gilbert slapped his hand harshly over his knee, shaking his head disapprovingly, “Fuck that noise. Charleroi is done. Moscow is over. We’ve beat a strategic retreat, you’ve regrouped on neutral territory, and now its time to launch your next assault.”   
  
Francis stared, bemused by just how far Gilbert was willing to take an allegory, “Well, since I’ve apparently discovered a wonderful adviser in neutral territory, what would you advise?”   
  
Gilbert preened, “First, good call asking for my awesome advice. Second, the way I see it, you have two outstanding objectives in question.”   
  
Francis nodded, murmuring, “The Blue Tulip and Jos.”   
  
“Correct," Gilbert nodded approvingly, very much a young and stern professor. "So you’ve got three options. A total retreat, a single, selective attack, or a two-front war,” Gilbert intoned gravely, as though discussing the shambles of Francis’ professional and personal life was as important as planning an assault on the Western front.   
  
It was a wonderful spot of brightness in Francis’ enduring feelings of gray.   
  
“So,” Gilbert concluded, “You’ve got to decide what you want to go after. Allocate your resources, regroup, and relaunch.”   
  
Francis swallowed, thinking over his choices...the push and pull between the Tulip and Jos, feeling the anxious fear and doubt creep up his throat as Arthur’s words and his own recriminations whispered in his heart.    
  
He was a man who understood desire as Gilbert understood war. And yet the complexities of feeling proved elusive when placed within his destructive hands.    
  
“Do you  think there is ever a time to walk away from territory that might be won with some concerted effort?” Francis asked softly, thinking of Jos and the way his lips had always parted so readily for each kiss he bestowed.   
  
Gilbert looked at him sharply, mouth pursed as he answered carefully, “I think conquering something just because its there to be conquered only leads to times that are less than awesome for the victor and his spoils. Generally, I think you better be damned sure you know why you’re waging war before you start one.”   
  
Francis closed his eyes, feeling the desire and affection he had for Jos wash over him, sharp and fine, wondering if he could ever be trusted with something so dangerous and yet fragile, when he had failed so completely.   
  
“I love the Blue Tulip,” Francis murmured as he stared at the unsigned contract, his decision settling like a veil over the rawness his heart, “And I will not walk away from it. Not even if it takes me months to regain the confidence of my dearest flowers. Not even if it costs me all my pride to be taken back.”   
  
Gilbert grabbed his chin, forcing his eyes up to meet Gilbert’s intense, serious gaze, “And the other?”   
  
Francis wondered if Gilbert was horrified by the sadness in his eyes, knowing that he would be disappointed in his own friend if he knew that it was resignation and fear that drove Francis to confess lowly, “I will not risk it.”   
  
“You won’t?” Gilbert asked quietly, eyebrow arching skeptically.   
  
“Clearly, I am not to be entrusted with a two-front war,” Francis said with the taste of bitterness on his tongue, waiting for the relief of having made his choice to calm the anxious racing of his heart, “And so I shall walk away from that field of engagement. Spare the combatants any further harm.”   
  
Gilbert said nothing, just stared with his mouth opening and closing several times before he huffed and released him with a grudging, “Well, at least now you have a fucking strategy.”   
  
Francis watched with wide eyes as Gilbert grabbed the contract and ripped it to shreds, scattering the pieces over the bed and Francis’ head, wiping his hands  and pointing towards the door, “So get the hell out of bed, the hell out of my bar, and the hell out of Berlin and go to wherever it is you need to go to get done what needs to be done.”   
  
Francis laughed at Gilbert’s antics through the ripples of his surprise and the lingering feelings of regret that still hummed beneath the slowly quelling worry and fear as a sudden burst of inspiration broke through his clouded mind.   
  
“I’ll go North. To Scandinavia,” Francis mused aloud, already leveraging himself out of the bed, kicking at the remnants of the contract, plans and places rushing through his thoughts. He imagined the man he wanted to find, letting his professional determination overrun the personal disappointment that still nagged at his conscience. If they would have him back, he would not return empty handed.   
  
“Another retreat?” Gilbert asked suspiciously.   
  
“Hardly. A tactical regrouping and recruitment of new allies to woo the doubters and reward my supporters,” Francis said with a wink, energy and enthusiasm slowly starting to trickle in as he plotted how it was he could regain his ground at the Tulip.   
  
Gilbert shivered dramatically, grousing, “Oh, great, another pervert for the three ring circus of filth. Try and find an only child. Spare another brother or sister my not awesome experience.”   
  
Francis rolled his eyes and tossed a dirty sock at Gilbert’s face, answering brightly, “I make no promises, my darling. Most of my favorite boys are someone’s brother, after all.”   
  
“Ugh, don’t remind me,” Gilbert pouted playfully before his expression turned serious once more, tempering Francis’ sudden relentless urge to be moving on as he said, “But, listen, Francis. Don’t let Jos go on wondering any longer where you are and what you’ve decided.”   
  
Francis sucked in a sharp breath, surprised by Gilbert’s unexpectedly candid and direct naming of the problem, flushing with regret at how cowardly his actions must appear, how it seemed as though he continued to betray the trust that Jos had placed squarely in his hands.   
  
Francis met Gilbert’s stern gaze, nodding as he promised, “I will."   
  
He looked at his watch, plans continuing to foment while he muttered, "As soon as I get to Oslo,” deciding that Norway was as good a place as any to look for his redemption.   
  
Gilbert endured another moment of his aimless pacing about the small room before rolling his eyes and jerking his thumb towards the door once more. Francis smiled and shuffled towards him, risking an affectionate squeeze of the shoulder and a gentle whisper:   
  
“Thank you, my dear, dear friend.”   
  
~~~~~   
  
Late that evening, Francis sat in the uncomfortable chairs of an empty airline gate in Gardermoen, weary and reluctant, staring at the blank screen of his phone, wondering when it was that his way with words had so abandoned him. For the duration of the short flight he had tried to decide what to say, how to explain without excuses, and yet all he could think of was how different he had felt the last time he'd been in flight, pressed warmly against Jos' side, happily ruing the loss of the flight attendant's good will as Jos absently stroked his knee and ruminated on how best to bring about Arthur's downfall.   
  
And now, he was alone in an airport in Oslo, trying to figure out how to close one chapter and write another.    
  
His finger hovered over the contact for Jos as he tried to swallow around all the words he knew he could not say, because he was supposed to know nothing of what Jos had risked for him, knowing the man well enough to know that he would not want anything Francis offered him if he believed even for an instant that it came from obligation.   
  
So  _thank you_  was an impossibility and Francis was forced to take the heavy warmth of that secret knowledge and wind it tightly around his heart, trusting in that bond strongly enough to believe that no matter how desperate and broken their little world seemed in this moment, there would be a place for him at the Tulip.   
  
At length, when no flash of brilliance came thundering through the fog of his thoughts, Francis closed his eyes and dialed, holding his breath for one last act of contrition.   
  
The phone rang only twice before a familiar, so unexpectedly missed voice picked up, greeting him with a crisp, “Jos van Rijn.”   
  
Francis exhaled and cradled the phone against his neck, trying to keep his voice even as he revealed himself, “Jos. This is Francis.”   
  
There was a moment of silence before Jos answered coolly, “Francis. I presume you are not in the office.”   
  
Francis smiled a little, as he knew that Jos knew perfectly well he was not at the office but was unwilling to ask where Francis had been. A measure of fondness crept into his voice as he explained, “I’m afraid not. I’ve just arrived in Oslo.”   
  
He heard Jos’ sharp inhale and the tell-tale click of a cigarette lighter before Jos continued smoothly, “And what business takes you there?”   
  
Francis closed his eyes and steadied himself, answering simply and clearly, “Our business.”   
  
“Oh?” Jos asked so promptly that Francis could not help but quicken with relief, smiling into the receiver as he proceeded,   
  
“Yes, as we’ve a vacancy on the roster, I thought I might make another Nordic excursion in search of a new Tulip to join our garden.”   
  
Francis’ smile dimmed as Jos stayed quiet for so a long moment that he began to wonder if he had miscalculated once more, until Jos exhaled so softly that Francis could almost picture the way the smoke would have curled around his face, hiding the secrets in his eyes.   
  
“Will your trip be of some duration?” Jos finally asked.   
  
“I don’t know. I will try Oslo first and move to Helsinki should I fail to find anyone promising amongst the men of Norway," Francis answered honestly, hoping it did not appear as though it was his intention to keep away from Amsterdam and leave Jos to clean up the remaining mess he'd made.   
  
“I see,” Jos answered quietly, clearing his throat before continuing, “Try and be brief. Your absence does not go unremarked amongst the staff.”   
  
Francis sighed, touching a finger to his lips, wondering how it was that Jos would try and protect him even now, promising him softly, “I imagine not. But do not worry on that count, I will manage relations as best as I am able remotely. “   
  
“Very well,” Jos replied, “We’ll resume filming upon your return.”   
  
Francis closed his eyes once more, lingering for a long, quiet moment in Jos’ acceptance, knowing that he would do nothing to risk this any longer. In the early light of a Berlin morning he had decided that no matter the possessive, yearning feelings that ran thick under his skin or the tiny voice that questioned the surety he was certain he would feel once the loss had faded, he would walk away.   
  
And though he could have said nothing, could have let the question be answered by silence and Jos would never have breathed a word of it again, Francis could not stop the words that flew from his lips, rich with regret and sweetness.   
  
“I will always be sorry.”   
  
“For what?”   
  
Francis believed there were too many things he could be sorry for, handfuls upon handfuls of regret, but all he could say in soft earnestness was, “I will always be sorry for a last kiss given in anger.”   
  
In the ensuing silence, Francis knew that Jos had understood. And as they breathed together, Francis felt the wrenching sharpness of what he had just given away and hoped that this once he had made the right decision.   
  
“I see,” Jos answered at length, his voice distant and distorted before the moment faded away entirely, and he was ordering Francis to return quickly and abruptly ending the call.   
  
“Yes, my darling,” Francis said quietly, smiling through his sadness, clinging to the assurance of his welcome back to the business, “I will be home soon.”   
  
Pocketing the phone and collecting his bags, Francis sighed once more and tried to put his troubles to rest, quieting his aching heart and turning his eyes towards the future, readying himself for the next of his nine lives and the next great discovery.   
  
~~~~~   
He had not anticipated that he would make such a discovery on his first morning in a dreary little coffee-shop and bakery in downtown Oslo, that it would be in the doldrums of morning and not under the expected lights and glitter of a nightclub that he would find that for which he had been looking.   
  
He’d come with laptop in hand, seeking caffeine and a quiet place to begin slowly restoring the confidences of his disgruntled Tulips, and had his breath taken away by the cold, brittle beauty of the man who gave him coffee and breakfast with the bare minimum politeness.   
  
Francis had been enamored from the first, delighted by the paleness of the man’s cheeks and the distant, unreadable blueness of his eyes, feeling their chill each time he held up his cup and gestured for a refill, welcoming and encouraging the wonderfully minute flickers of expression that gave away temptingly little of whatever it was that floated beneath the surface of his cool disinterest.   
  
(Years later he would wonder if he noticed him only because of who he was missing, if he had gone out in search of a hard gaze and eyes full of mystery, and found this man because he had in his heart of hearts been looking for another.)   
  
In between emails to Antonio and Felicianco that begged their assistance in speaking to their colleagues, in generously pleading Francis’ case and begin sowing seeds of his apology to dislodge the poison barbs left by Ivan, Francis watched his lovely Norwegian. He watched the contain grace of his movements, the disdain in the curve of his mouth as another patron dared to intrude into his personal space, the way he occasionally would slip into the smallest hints of a smile in the early hours of the afternoon when his phone rang.   
  
Francis wondered who it was that engendered this slip of emotion in his beautiful mystery man, already daydreaming about how he would tease such expressions forth for the camera, imagining how he would loose just enough of the passion he suspected burned beneath cold eyes to enchant but not so much that the magic of the unattainable was lost.   
  
For almost a week, Francis took pleasure in observation, writing new scripts and cajoling and flattering his way back into Feliks’ good graces, letting the excitement of the chase assuage the emptiness that still plagued him when he sat quiet and still for too long.   
  
And when the morning began to wane into afternoon on the sixth day of his sojourn in Oslo, having met no one that even came close to capturing his attention like this man who treated customers with thinly veiled contempt and stared back at him with open irritation, Francis decided that it was time to make his play. He knew it would not likely be easy to sway someone who believed themselves impervious to all temptation, to all irrationality and personal desire. But Francis, with little left to lose and much to gain, was ready to remember how it was to win, to  remember that underneath all the rubble and the unfortunate bruises, he was still Francis Bonnefoy and this was his domain.   
  
It was time to go home.   
  
He waved the man over, smiling invitingly into the face of his quarry’s frigid disapproval.   
  
“Yes?” The man said shortly, crossing his arms over his chest as though that would somehow ward off Francis’ unknown intentions.   
  
“I’ve been watching you, my dear,” Francis said calmly, watching the shift of the man’s hips as he prepared to stand his ground or flee the scene, depending on Francis’ actions. Oh, but Francis did love a calculating thinker.   
  
“I’ve noticed,” the man answered coolly, “And I’m not interested. I don’t associate with customers.”   
  
Francis laughed prettily, amused by the man’s brash dismissal, for all that he was unsurprised that someone so alluring would have had no end of dazzled, hopeless suitors.   
  
“Why not? Do you find it too awkward?” Francis teased lightly, enjoying the scornful twist of the man’s lips as he spat,   
  
“I find them too idiotic.”   
  
Francis smiled and propped his chin on his hand, giving his new friend an approving glance, “I am certain you do. How fortunate for me that that is not what I am after.”   
  
The man looked unconvinced though his arms came down to rest at his sides and he asked blandly, “Not your type?”   
  
Francis looked him up and down, musing wryly, “Inscrutable, cutting, and handsome? No, I’m afraid you are exactly my type.”   
  
He sighed and shook his head, “But no matter. That’s not why I called you over.”   
  
“Well, what then?” The man answered with bored impatience, "Is there a problem with the coffee?"   
  
"Hardly," Francis said cheerfully, raising his cup in salute, "The second best I've ever had."   
  
The man stared at him blankly, expression unmoved and as mysteriously cold as ever and Francis simply smiled back, a battle of wills, until he caved and waved an aggravated hand as if to say "out with it already."  Francis could not wait to find the partner who would push his buttons.   
  
“Oh,” Francis said nonchalantly, smirking as he continued, “I had just observed that you must be one of the worst baristas I’ve ever encountered.”   
  
The man balked, startled into a fleeting expression of surprise that Francis wanted to capture and replay over and over again.   
  
“Oh, I mean no offense,” Francis said smoothly, pushing out the chair in front of him as an invitation, “But you seem to loathe your customers, find the work tedious, and the only time you smile all day is when your phone rings at precisely half-past three. You are meant for something more than this small corner of the world. You know it as well as I do.”   
  
The man looked at him warily, sitting down stiffly, asking coldly, “And to what end have you made all these observations?”   
  
Francis smiled and handed him his card, casting all his thoughts towards the future, thinking of Jos and the Blue Tulip, whispering a silent prayer that the wonderful times would come again.   
  
He watched, entirely beguiled and determined to have him, as the lovely stranger read his card, the ice in his eyes shifting and stirring as the realization of who Francis was sank in.   
  
To have this Norway.   
  
He took a breath and played the first hand of the new round of the game, hoping to win.   
  
“Because, my darling, I wanted to talk to you about a new career.”   
  
~End

 


End file.
